


Prophets in the Graveyard

by FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (kind of?), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Fluff, Happy Ending, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Stephen Strange, Hurt Tony Stark, Loki & Peter Parker Friendship, M/M, Magic, Murder Mystery, Political Intrigue, Prophecy, Romance, Stephen Strange Needs a Hug, The time-travel murder mystery fantasy AU with Cinderella vibes that nobody asked for, Time Travel, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark is the best leader a political territory could ask for, Worldbuilding, Xenophobia, but I wrote it anyway, it's like a fairy tale slowburn, they're brothers in arms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 76,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26905534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls/pseuds/FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls
Summary: It begins with an earnest prince, a long-kept secret, and an unknown attack on the woman who was once the strongest sorcerer in the realm.It ends with the prince's gruesome murder, the kingdom's focused grief, and the scarred power of a young sorcerer hired to change the past.It begins again with hidden magic and a second chance. And this time, no one knows how it will end.
Relationships: Ancient One & Stephen Strange, Howard Stark & Tony Stark, Loki & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Stephen Strange, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Comments: 234
Kudos: 240





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome to a new fic! 
> 
> This is a little different from my usual stuff, but I've been having an absolute blast with it. I've gone entirely AU, sprinkled with a good deal of politics, magic, and intrigue, and I can't wait to share it with you. Stephen and Tony will be taking center stage, but I can never keep my hands off a good Loki and Peter brolationship, so expect that here, too. 
> 
> This first chapter is a little shorter, future chapters will be longer; between 6-12k most likely. Updates will hopefully be weekly, though I don't technically have all of it written yet. XD. I decided to post today because 1) it's a birthday present to myself and 2) Stephen Strange Is Going To Go Dr. Dad Mode In Spider-Man Three And I'm Literally Losing My Mind With Excitement. *cough cough* anyway. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy this story!

The castle is black, layered with the colors of mourning, when Stephen passes through its sprawling walls. He leans idly out through the carriage window to watch the spires rise toward the overcast sky. Even the flags are black. The red and gold crest of the Stark house has been replaced, in every place Stephen expects it to hang, by the heaviness of grief.

Scarred fingers tapping slowly on the rough wood of the carriage window, Stephen turns his gaze to nearer matters. The Order sent only one carriage, but the escort of castle guards is more fit for a dozen. Stephen perceives the men's shining armor as dull, reflecting the sorrowful atmosphere. Hands are kept ready on weapons—useless as those blades would be against the Order. 

The guards' faces are covered. Stephen hardly notices. His Eye is open, blinking lazily on the back of his hand in abstract shapes of emerald and bronze. Stephen’s palm presses over the left side of his face, covering one eye in favor of the view from another. 

He Sees the grief this way. He Sees the deeper patterns of reality twisting like the sadness of the spirits that surround him. He Sees the guards' dull armor where it should be shining. Beneath those subfusc helmets, Stephen Sees souls that cannot be masked with metal. The souls do more to identify the humans than faces ever could.

“What’s the verdict?” 

Stephen ducks back into the carriage, turning to look at the woman beside him. Respectfully, he drops his hand and the Eye it displays back to his chest. 

“It’s not a trap,” Stephen admits with some grudgingness.

“And?” The Ancient One gives him a light smile Stephen has known her long enough to identify as teasing.

“You were right.”

“And?”

Stephen grits his teeth. “And, therefore, by the natural progression of logic, I was wrong.”

Someone hoots from the front of the carriage. Stephen hopes Wong has his Eye open and can perceive Stephen flipping him off from inside the vehicle. 

He pushes the subject along. “So if this truly wasn’t a farce to get you away from Kamar-Taj and attack you while you’re still, ah—” he gestures vaguely at the Ancient One and elects for the safest word— “ _recovering_ , then what exactly are we doing?”

The Ancient One clasps her hands on her knees. There’s a permanent, bloody mark on the back of her left hand, and the amulet around her neck is empty and dead. Only fellow sorcerers can See that the Ancient One no longer wears an Eye, so she still keeps the husk of its home hanging against her sternum.

Stephen has no idea how she can bear it. 

He has no idea how she’s stayed so strong, continuing on as she always has after the brutal experience of losing her Eye. Stephen can’t imagine. The memory of his own narrow save of his power is buried and old, and the lingering pain in his hands is nothing even to the  _ thought  _ of losing his Eye after he’s grown so connected with it. 

“We are doing exactly what you think we’re doing,” the Ancient One tells Stephen. “We are responding to a royal summons.”

_ A mere month after you were attacked.  _ “You’ve never brought me along on royal business before.”

The Ancient One looks at him levelly. “Don’t play stupid; it doesn’t suit you.”

Stephen grunts, slumping against the side of the carriage as they move across the courtyard. The quiet clanks of the guards' armor accompany them. He opens his Eye again: lifts his palm to cover his left eye. He hadn’t returned his Eye to its containment amulet, so opening it consists only of that single movement. 

“So he really is dead, then,” Stephen mutters, watching the eddies of mourning pass beneath the wheels of the carriage. 

“Yes,” the Ancient One agrees. “Anthony Stark truly was killed eleven days ago.”

The crown prince, dead. By the time the news had reached the far reaches and filtered into Kamar-Taj, it had been only rumors. Stephen wanted to dismiss it as gossip. He  _ had _ dismissed it. 

Now, he blinks at spirits and souls, and he understands the unusually potent energies gathered around the castle. For an instant, he contributes to it. The crown prince was a kind figure, an intelligent politician, and an exemplary heir. Stephen never knew him, but he feels the loss of the stability of the kingdom, the loss of the  _ good  _ that the prince strived to give.

Anthony was going to be the best king the empire had ever had the fortune to see, and now he’s dead. 

“That sucks,” Stephen says flatly.

The Ancient One nods again. She waits for Stephen to continue, not  _ quite  _ smirking, but it’s close.

“So he’s dead, and the Order’s been summoned to the castle—eleven days after the fact. Which means, accounting for the time it took for the messenger to travel, that the summons must have been sent the day after His Highness kicked the bucket. Maybe two days after, since the weather’s been good.” Stephen glances at the Ancient One—with his normal eyes, not his magic one. “You said we’re here to do exactly what I think.”

The Ancient One doesn't-quite-smirk a little harder.

“The king summoned you—the strongest sorcerer in the Order until a month ago. And you’ve hauled me out of Kamar-Taj to accompany you, right in the middle of recording the timeline changes Hamir caused, after he just came back from that incident with the dam treaty seven years ago.”

“I have,” the Ancient One agrees. “And here we are, in a castle swamped with grief.”

Stephen raises an eyebrow. “This is a job, isn’t it?”

“I believe so,” says the Ancient One. The carriage is trundling to a halt; Stephen must finish this conversation quickly before any guards have the opportunity to overhear. 

“So I’m to play Revisionist today?” he asks.

The Ancient One levels him with her intense gaze, as if she can see his spirit and timeline even without her Eye. “I’m no longer the strongest sorcerer in the Order, Stephen. You are. So it is you who will bend the timeline and revise it; it’s you who will save Anthony Stark's life eleven days ago.”

Stephen blinks.

“Oh,” he says. “Right then. This should be… fun.”

Stephen thinks vaguely, climbing out of the carriage and onto the rain-soaked ground, that he’s never used time travel to play bodyguard before. The last time he Revised, it was a simple jump, just a few hours back, to save a specific book from a library fire in Greenwood. The time before that, he and Wong had jumped forward six months to confirm the danger of a sickness. 

Stephen keeps his head high as he walks behind the Ancient One, the guards flanking him without subtlety. He keeps his Eye open, patterned across the back of his scarred hand. He watches the threads of souls and the Communal Timeline and knows the names and characters of the strangers around him with a single blink.

Another guard meets them at the door of the castle proper. Stephen looks him up and down and amends; this is the knight Rhodes, sent to replace their entourage (still entirely too large) and lead the three sorcerers to the king and queen.

“Welcome, sorcerers of the Order,” Rhodes says. His voice is smooth and his tone is fake. Stephen’s Eye blinks. This knight is draped heavily in grief, of a more personal kind, and Stephen half wants to offer his condolences. He doesn’t.

The Ancient One presents their summons by way of answer. The envelope is still sealed. What’s the point of time travel, after all, if you can’t flex passive-aggressively on the secular leaders of the state?

But then Stephen sees the bloody mark on the Ancient One’s hand and remembers. There will be no more magic for the woman to whom it belongs most completely. 

Rhodes doesn’t react, nor attempt to verify the authenticity of the summons. It speaks to the grief of the castle, the determination of the knight, and the importance of this mission. A moment later, Stephen is following the armored figure through the castle. 

He pays attention to the walk. If he truly is here to begin a Revision, he will need to know the palace when he goes back in time to walk among its inhabitants. It’ll do him good to know the locations of the windows, the stations of the guards, and the layout of the hallways. Stephen memorizes each mounted weapon and servants' tunnel. He notes fireplaces and relic rooms and the number of pillars inside the great hall, and then the throne room—where they finally stop.

King Howard and Queen Maria wait for them, standing in front of gilded thrones laid dark with black cloth. They wear mourning robes. Stephen holds in a snort; the king and queen are  _ resplendent  _ in mourning robes, somehow managing to turn this peasantry-originated gesture of respect and regret into something ostentatious. 

Stephen does manage to hold in that snort, but Wong still glares at him. Out of spite, Stephen schools his face into complete neutrality beneath where his left hand is pressed against it. He thinks he sees the Ancient One roll her eyes. 

“Your Majesties,” she says. She doesn’t bow, but Stephen and Wong do. “We received your message and arrived as soon as we could.”

Howard nods slightly in acknowledgement, and Stephen sees tiredness written into his energies. There is grief there as well, but it is edged with conviction and hope. Stephen watches it drift around the king’s feet. 

“We are deeply sorry for your loss,” the Ancient One says. “And for the loss to the kingdom.”

“He’s…it’s tragic,” Howard says, and Stephen notes he just witnessed a king fumble for words.

“Well, that’s what we’re here for,” Stephen drawls, not even trying to stop himself. He doesn’t balk under the eyes that turn to him.

“I don’t recall detailing instructions in my summons,” Howard says. 

He’s assuming Stephen’s knowledge comes from a futurewalk. Stephen doesn’t correct him. It takes too long to try and explain why  _ ‘it doesn’t work like that’,  _ and Stephen hates to watch people’s eyes glaze over when he tries to explain the very basics of his life’s work to them. It’s somewhat discouraging. 

Howard continues, “this is, obviously, a mission of great importance. It’s my son. I can’t allow…” he trails off. 

“You want a Revisionist to hop back in time and stop the crown prince’s death.” Stephen rocks his weight onto his heels, He prefers the peasantry. They just  _ ask.  _ None of this… preamble. 

Stephen’s the one who gets to do the preamble. And maybe, just maybe, the Ancient One is right and he does have a bit of an authority problem. But that’s neither here nor there.

“I want the best of Revisionists,” the king orders, “who will not fail to save him."

“Your Magesties assume our oaths permit this,” Wong reminds stoically. 

Howard’s eyes grow hard. “And do they?”

“Yes,” the Ancient One answers for them. “The Order is permitted to revise a timeline for a purpose such as this. We will help you.”

Stephen listens with one ear, casting his gaze around the throne room. The black decorations and draperies make him feel slightly enclosed, like he’s stepped into a cave instead of into the arching ceilings of a grand palace. The pillars hide a number of doors. Even with his Eye open, Stephen can’t hope to guess where they all lead. 

A flash of movement beyond the thrones catches his attention. He sways sideways slightly to try and get a better view. The king is still talking, and Stephen takes the liberty not to listen, favoring squinting into the shadowy edge of the throne room instead. There’s a figure there—two, actually, both half-hidden behind a pillar. Stephen doesn’t recognize the energies or the timeline threads of the one he can See, so he must not have heard of them before. 

The clearer figure meets Stephen’s gaze for an instant, young brown eyes hazy with contained pain, and Stephen sees the quiet panic of someone caught where they shouldn’t be. 

Stephen knows that look. The kid is silently praying Stephen will move on and ignore his lingering presence. With a wink, Stephen does. 

It would be hypocritical of him to call someone out for eavesdropping, after all.

He tunes back into the conversation when the Ancient One says his name. “Stephen will serve as the Revisionist you need.”

The king of the realm looks Stephen up and down and seems displeased. 

“I require the best of your Order,” Howard deigns to repeat.

“And I am giving him to you,” the Ancient One says calmly. Stephen does his very best not to preen. 

“A Revisionist needs as much information as possible,” Wong contributes. “We need to know everything you do about Prince Anthony’s death.”

The name seems to hang in the air. The queen flinches. The eavesdroppers duck further behind their pillar. 

“He was murdered,” Maria says.

Stephen doesn’t show his surprise. “How?”

“A wound from an unusual weapon,” answers the king. “The servants are calling it a curse.” 

He doesn’t say what all of them know; curses are nothing but superstition. The Order holds this world’s magic, and timelines were certainly not involved in the murder of a prince. But rumors of a curse would mean an uncommon weapon or brutal wound. Stephen isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing for investigation. 

“Did you see him die?” Stephen asks. 

Another wince. Another hanging moment. 

“No. No one saw it happen,” Howard explains. “Peter found his body. In the window seat above the northern courtyard.”

One of the eavesdroppers in the shadows hunches small shoulders. 

“Hm,” Stephen says unreadably. But he pulls his hand slightly off his face, subtly angling it in the direction of the figure. The stylized patterning of his Eye half-closes. To the Order, it’s a gesture of acknowledgement. Stephen uses it like a condolence. 

The eavesdropper ducks fully behind the pillar. 

“All you need to do is keep Anthony from the reach of the weapon,” the king says, as if it’s easy, as if Stephen didn’t also have to identify who held the weapon, why they were off murdering royalty, and how to keep others out of harms way in order to assure the permanence of this change. Keeping the crown prince from dying eleven days ago doesn’t keep the Crown Prince from dying _ten_ days ago unless Stephen rids the timeline of the individual who would kill him. 

The king continues, “he dies in the evening on October 16. That gives you all day to work.”

Stephen keeps his face impassive instead of loudly informing a king that he’s not a miracle worker. It will take him longer than a few hours. Just because he skips through time doesn’t mean he doesn’t need some now and then, especially if he’s going to solve a murder.

It doesn’t matter anyway; if Stephen succeeds, Howard will never technically have to give this order, as far as the Communal Timeline is concerned. Therefore, he won’t remember Stephen breaking it.

And if Stephen doesn’t succeed, well. He’ll burn that bridge when he comes to it. 

“When you have completed the job, you can jump back to this moment—though this moment will look different,” Howard says. 

Stephen holds his tongue.  _ It doesn’t work like that,  _ he doesn’t say.  _ It doesn’t work like that.  _

A sorcerer uses the energies around them to phase backward or forward along the timeline of their Eye. A sorcerer can never travel further than the moment they once gained their Eye, or further than the moment they will lose it. A sorcerer remembers a different world than the common people, remembers the experiences they themselves have lived instead of the cumulative ‘Communal Timeline’ that governs the lives of the kingdom’s citizens. 

This means that Stephen will remember that he lived a few weeks in a world where Anthony Stark was dead, but no one else will. Because to them, Anthony Stark would have never died. 

A Revisionist is never in two places at once. When they travel back in time, they travel along the path Communal Timeline. Wherever Stephen remembers being on October 16, he will not, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, have been there. He will remember his life as he’s lived it. Others will remember him alongside the communal timeline. 

It’s twisted and confusing and unfollowable, which is why the Order keeps such good records. Such is Stephen’s prime responsibility. A dozen other students and masters, including Wong, work alongside him. They record everything that ‘originally’ happened (though that’s a loose term as far as Stephen can tell); everything that was changed; everything that can’t be changed; everything that must never change; and everything that is thought of as the current Communal Timeline. That last is the only reason any of them know what’s going on in the world.

Things get weird when you remember an entirely different history than the one that ‘actually’ happened. 

The king doesn’t understand that Stephen will not jump ‘back’ to any moment. No matter where Stephen is in the Communal Timeline, his life happens linearly; past, present, future. Stephen will not ever return to this moment. Instead, sometime in his future, there will again come an October 26th that will be new for Stephen—but will be the only October 26th anyone else in this room will remember.

Everyone always assumes that because their memories get erased or rewritten during a time jump, the same happens to the Revisionist. And that’s where everyone is always wrong. 

But Stephen doesn't say this. He says, “yes, Majesty,” and he waits. 

“Is there anything else you know?” the Ancient One wonders. “Anything else about the day, or the days leading up to it, that might assist in Stephen’s mission?”

“It was the Dynasty Celebration,” Queen Maria offers. Her voice is tight from more than grief, and Stephen remembers that she is against the actions of the Order. It isn’t an unusual opinion; people are understandably uncomfortable with the thought of living lives and studying histories that have been rewritten untold times over without their knowledge. Maria Stark is one of the reasons the Order has been permitted freedom from royal association. She wants nothing to do with them.

Until the point that she needs them, of course.

“Right,” Stephen says, voice betraying nothing. The Dynasty Celebration indeed lines up with the prince’s death, which he should have realized. He needs to pay more attention to holidays. “How long does—did—the celebration last?”

“Five days,” Maria tells him. “It—he died on the final night.”

Well isn’t that just  _ fantastic _ ? Five nights of high-class, stuck-ass secular party, attended by every important political figure in the realm and already a nightmare for security. Stephen will have to find and kill an assassin before said assassin kills the crowded, stuck-ass secular party’s main act: Crown Prince Anthony Stark. 

Stephen takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he’s worked in worse conditions. 

_ You remember half a dozen apocalypses. You’ve stopped them. You can protect one measly prince. _

“The Dynasty Celebration will be good cover,” Stephen allows. “I won’t be too conspicuous, with the Asgardians coming in from the North. It’s better if the assassin doesn’t notice a Revisionist in the castle’s ranks.”

Howard nods. “How soon can you jump?”

It doesn’t matter—not in terms of the Communal Timeline—so Stephen says, “immediately. I’ll just need a totem.”

Maria cocks her head. The black drapery of her mourning robes pool around her ankles. “A totem?”

“A letter in your handwriting or with your signature,” Stephen clarifies, “to assure your past self that I’m acting on your orders. It’s Order regulation.”

It’s admittedly a rather new Order regulation. But Stephen’s arrest count since its enactment has wildly decreased, so he’s rather partial to it. There’s nothing more frustrating than trying to save the life of some small-town business owner as they simultaneously try to get you thrown in the stocks. 

“Right, of course.”

Stephen looks to the Ancient One, one eyebrow raised in question. She nods.  _ ‘Five days,’  _ she mouths, giving him permission to take his time in direct contrast to the king’s earlier order. Stephen clasps his hand a little tighter around his face, his Eye flickering across what’s in front of him, drinking in the stories he can perceive. 

The Ancient One watches him, the bloody mark on her hand tucked out of sight. Her face is even. Her confidence is unwavering. 

But Stephen sees the sadness, just for an instant, when she cannot open her Eye to stand beside him as she’s always done. 

Energies swirl and spirits spark and Stephen breathes in the scent of time and pretends it doesn’t matter. 

“Now, shall we begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think now is the time to inform everyone that I adore the Ancient One. She's wonderful.  
> Come talk to me on tumblr at doitwritenow!  
> Thanks so much for reading, and more coming soon.


	2. The First Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks so much for your awesome comments on the first chapter. I've been blown away!!! Anyway, a week has come and gone, and I have returned from the fire-ravaged lands to present you with chapter two.
> 
> Enjoy!

On the afternoon of October 12th, Crown Prince Anthony Stark has soot ruining his robes.

"I see it!" he yells, crouching down as quickly as he can to stick an arm out of the fireplace. It's a nice fireplace. Nicer from the outside, of course, but it's not like people normally make a habit of standing in the beds of the castle hearths. 

Maybe they should. He kind of likes it in here. 

He waves his hand in the outside air until it collides with warm skin and noble's clothes. "Peter, the net, quick."

The thin shaft of a hunting net— modified skillfully in the few moments warning Tony had been given— presses into his hand. He pulls it into the fireplace. There's another flare of soot, making him cough, as he maneuvers it above his head. Carefully, he strikes; the light threads of the net close around the frantic form of bird hopelessly lost within the twists of the chimney. Peter'd heard the poor thing bang around all morning.

Tony backs out of the fireplace, net in hand. He blinks in the sunlight of the wide room and dusts ash across the pristine floor.

Noble's heir Parker laughs when Tony turns to face him. He's laughing still when he reaches out to cup the frantic bird gently between his hands.

"You look like you're spontaneously turning into stone," Peter chirps.

Tony raises an ash-streaked forearm to swipe at an ash-covered forehead. He grins. "Mission accomplished."

He goes to give Peter a high-five, but the kid makes a face. "Don't get close," Peter orders. "I don't want to get yelled at for ruining my Celebration outfit when Ms. Potts comes looking for us."

Tony glances down at his robes and winces. Yeah, he's definitely gone and ruined them.

Whatever. Pepper's used to it. And if Tony would actually wear something _other_ than silk when out of the workshop or the sparring grounds, there'd be no problem.

Well, Tony would still probably find some way to ruin it. See: fireplace. 

Peter looks him up and down analytically. “Okay, uh, take off your shoes. Then you’ll track less dirt all over the place.”

Tony acquiesces, stepping out of his slippers and pinching the ankles between two fingers. He flicks ash at Peter, who dives out of the way with a squeak. 

“Hey! Jerk!”

Tony looms—Peter is still growing, which means he’s actually shorter than Tony—and lifts his chin. “That is not my full title, ill-mannered youth.”

“Oh, excuse me, Your Royal Jerkness, Crown Prince Old Man of the realm.”

“Thank you.”

Peter grins widely. Tony used to avoid mention of status, thinking it might make the kid self-conscious of his own low noble lineage, but Peter has never cared. He’s conscious of the respect he shows Tony in public, and it never feels fake or two-faced or dotted with ulterior motives like most of the other times Tony hears his name. But just as easily as Peter’s genuinely gracious around a Crown Prince, he’s a little menace of a child whenever Tony’s trying to lecture him or direct him or help him get birds out of castle chimneys. 

“It’s a sparrow,” Peter informs him, tugging the net out of his hands and making his way over to one of the windows.

“It’s not hurt.” Tony shakes himself, trying to get as much ash out of his clothes as possible before he moved. “So I think we’re good.”

Peter sets the net on the windowsill and releases his hold on the dirty sparrow. The bird wrenches itself around inside the mesh for a few tense moments before flinging out of the opening and plummeting into empty air. Tony sees it wing away into the blue expanse of the autumn sky. 

Looking back over his shoulder at Tony, Peter smiles. “Thanks.”

“How could I resist the sad puppy eyes?”

Peter sticks out his tongue. “You could’ve pulled rank.”

Tony snorts. “No I really couldn’t have. You'd've been all mopey for the first night of the Celebration. Or you would have tried to get a guest to help you go climbing around in chimneys instead of me, and I would have missed all the fun.”

Peter perks up a little, moving back across the room as Tony keeps shedding soot like snow flurries onto the marble. “Do you think—”

“Yes.”

Peter sticks his tongue out again. “I didn’t even finish.”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you your face will stick like that?”

Peter just glares at him. 

“You were gonna ask if the Myth Princes were coming to Avelshi for the festival,” Tony says. “They are; the Asgardian delegation will be staying all five days and then sticking around for the next few weeks of court for negotiations.”

Peter brightens. “Really?”

“Yeah, so you can harass the Frost Prince all you want.”

As the kingdom to the North, Asgard is considerably close to Avelshi in terms of politics. Their kingdoms show in person support for holidays and important events; Tony and King Howard travel to Asgard at least once every three months. Thor, the older prince, trained with Tony when they were children. Tony still considers them friends. 

Tony isn’t exactly sure when or how Peter met Frost Prince Loki, let alone how he managed to befriend Thor’s legendarily prickly younger brother. But he’s pretty sure their friendship has stopped all out war at least once. 

“When do the guests arrive?”

“The party starts…three hours? Two?” Tony looks down at his clothes again and cringes. “Fuck, Pepper’s gonna _kill_ me.”

“She can’t kill you; that’d be treason.”

“Then Pepper’s probably the most dangerous threat our kingdom’s ever faced.”

As if on cue, a horrified voice spills through the room. “Your Highness, _what the hell are you doing?”_

Tony snaps to attention, whirling guiltily toward the door. A skitter of feet marks Peter fleeing to the sidelines and dropping into a bow.

Pepper Potts is clad in all the finery of the kingdom, ready to demand the eyes of partygoers and out-class anyone below the queen. She’s technically, by title, a servant. No one thinks of her as such. No one _dares_ think of her as such. Even the king is…cautious around her, as well he should be. As tailor and staffmaster, Pepper is the force that keeps the castle running. 

“It’s my fault, Ms. Potts,” Peter’s young voice pipes up. “I made the Crown Prince go into the fireplace.”

Pepper, very slowly, brings a palm up to her forehead.

Tony grins apologetically. “There was a bird,” he explains. “Sorry, Pep.”

“You’re going to be late to the Celebration,” she informs him. “And I’m not going to cover for you.”

“It’s the king’s party anyway.”

“Just because something isn’t explicitly about you doesn’t mean you don’t have to take it seriously. People are going to want to talk to you. People are going to want to negotiate with you, and gain your favor, and press their agendas on you.”

Tony grins wider. “So you’re saying it is actually about me, even foregoing explicitness.”

“Everything is about you, Your Highness.” Pepper gives a long-suffering sigh that hides her fondness. Tony hears it anyway. 

“I’ll go get cleaned up.”

“You do that.”

Tony laughs and bounds into motion, giving Pepper a wide berth as to not risk dirtying her finery. He waves to Peter as he goes. The boy is still half-bowing, having not yet been dismissed, but he waves back before Tony slips out into the hall.

He’s a good kid. 

When Tony is king, he’s going to have the best court Avelshi has ever seen.

His socks are silent on the ornate floors of the castle, and Tony slips through halls and up floors in the familiar path to his quarters. There are a spattering of greetings and bows as he flies past servants and nobles, all tinged with amused confusion at the state of his clothes. The red and gold royal tapestries fill the halls with wings. Tony forcibly keeps himself from lightly running his fingertips along the fabric as he usually does. His hands are still black with soot. 

Tony’s rooms are just as sprawling as the hallways had been, tiled and draped and beautiful. He loves having so much space, though he does try to fill it—with treasures and with company. No one is here at the moment; he may be Crown Prince, but he’s not that shameless. 

There’s already a bath drawn, the one Tony should have taken this morning. The water’s cold. Tony dunks himself anyway, not bothering to remove his ruined clothes, as this is less of an activity and more of a desperate attempt to perform damage control on his appearance. 

He watches the light fall through the stained-glass window of the bathroom as he washes. The glass is wrought in the pattern of the royal crest. Eagle wings, red and gold, lift around the symmetrical portrait of a knight’s helmet. Atop the knight’s forehead is a stylized eye. 

Tony knows the wings represent the constant reach for change and innovation the Stark line has protected since it first took the throne. He knows the helmet is protective and steadfast. And he knows the eye is a remnant from the dynasties before the Stark—an aspect that has remained constant for the entirety of Avelshi’s history. 

The Order of the Revisionists. 

The sorcerers that protect their timeline have worked alongside the secular rulership for centuries. More. They stop events no one remembers and they predict futures that can be strived for. Training and residing in the Far Reaches of the kingdom, time means nothing to them—it’s nothing but a variable in a way no non-Revisionist could understand. 

“Makes my head hurt just thinking about it,” Tony grumbles.

He scrubs viciously at the soot in his hair and keeps thinking. Since his mother became queen and started to dismantle the more involved connections the kingship had with Kamar-Taj, the only clearly defined duty the Order has to the Starks is the crowning. At the beginning of a king or queen’s rule, the leader of the Order will present them with a list of events they should anticipate facing during their time on the throne.

These events are…inconsistent at best and wildly misleading at worst. Tony supposes that makes sense. It’s hard to predict the future when there are so many different ways the future can turn out, depending on how the Revisionists involve themselves. Everything can be rewritten. Everything can be changed. 

Well, most things. There must be rules—Tony just doesn’t know what they are. He tries to pretend that doesn't irk him.

The kings call the Order’s predictions ‘prophecies’, implying a layer of uncertainty. Tony has studied every past king’s reign. Historians map the prophecies to important events and the inconsistencies to certain well-documented cases of Revising, and it _still_ makes Tony want to pull his hair out.

History’s hard enough to keep track of as it is—and in Avelshi, history is always changing. 

“Father won’t show me his prophecies, you know,” Tony says to the empty air. Ash floats thickly on top of the water now. Tony works to get it out from under his fingernails. 

The king and queen won’t show anyone the prophecies of their reign. Not even Obediah knows what the Ancient One told Howard that day. 

Oh well. Tony’ll have his own predictions to deal with someday. 

Tony climbs out of the bath, dripping freezing water across the mosaic bathroom floor, and begins to prepare for a party. By the time he’s fit to leave his rooms, he’s toeing the edge of lateness—he needs to be in the throne room _ten minutes ago._

Tony retraces his steps through the palace, a streak of flame dressed in deep red and shining ebony. He ties his sword belt as he runs. The short sheath of his favorite dagger bounces at his hip, and Tony rests a hand on its hilt, both to steady it and to keep his flowing sleeves out of the way of his steps. It would do him no good to trip.

He screeches into the throne room to the sound of music and chatter—the Celebration has already begun. Tony has missed most of the noble introductions, which is good for his sanity but bad for his professionality. Oh well. He nods to the guests who notice his arrival, grins beneath the weight of his father’s glower, and slides up to stand beside the dais. 

The king looks regal, and the queen looks exquisite. Obediah stands to their left, a mirror to where Tony has settled, and he is as refined as always. Tony gives his mother an impressed nod, smiling, and Maria returns the expression as she looks him up and down. Then their expressions smooth to the respectful greeting of royalty and they turn back toward the door in time for the next introduction.

The Asgardian procession explodes into the room in that manner they always have; Asgardians are loud in everything they do, and it’s hearty and encouraging and uplifting. The Thunder Prince strides across the crowded throne room in half as many steps as it seems like he should take. His gait is easily audible over the music. Thor's smiling electrically, and he bows to Howard and Maria deeply. The bow Thor gives Tony is a little less formal, and Tony returns it with a smirk. 

Loki takes steps up beside his brother a moment later, sliding into an acknowledgement just _barely_ toeing the edge of disrespect. When Howard fixes him in his gaze, Loki cocks his head slitheringly. Then he bows properly—or as close to it as Asgardian customs and Loki's own pride allow. 

The Frost Prince tucks one ankle behind the other and bends primarily at his neck, lifting the amulet around his throat up in line with his cheek as he does so. The gesture is uniquely Loki—Tony’s never once seen another Asgardian repeat it. Tony asked Thor about it once, and the answer had been simple. _‘He’s assuring you he intends no harm.’_

“Your Majesties,” Thor proclaims, “thank you graciously for your invitation. We are delighted to be able to attend your celebration!”

He actually sounds delighted. Tony likes that about Thor. _‘We’re happy you could be here. It’s your turn to break your ass traveling across two kingdoms anyway,’_ he wants to joke. It’s not his turn to speak, however, so he just smiles and waits. 

“It is an honor to have your attendance,” Howard says. “So much is best done in person.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” 

Loki rolls his eyes—not very discreetly. Tony forcibly contains his snort as Thor elbows his brother—also not very discreetly. 

“Let me introduce the ambassadors of Asgard,” Thor booms, and he beckons the rest of the politicians forward. They stop into ranks behind him, the strange style of Asgardian fashion an intense contrast to the other guests.

The introductions go quickly; Tony’s met most of these nobles before. Odin sent Heimdall along with his sons, which means he’s serious about the negotiations that will follow the Dynasty Celebration. Good. They’ve been managing Odin’s obtuse demands for far too long. 

The music picks back up as the Asgardians disperse throughout the room. A servant props the sprawling doors to the great hall open, allowing more movement, and Tony can see that the courtyard has been set up with musicians and refreshments as well. He wonders if the legislative room is off-limits, or if someone's been at it with decorations and lanterns and costumes as well. 

The energy is lively, and Tony can practically smell the excitement. These rare days where the castle is a place of revelry are treasured. 

“You’re late,” Howard’s voice rumbles. It blends in with the strings of the musicians, so Tony takes a heartbeat to notice.

“Sorry, father. There was an incident.”

There’s always an incident. Howard knows this. The shadow of his crown falls in points across his face, and Tony wilts beneath his gaze. 

They’d been close once. As close as Tony still was with his mother, close enough to share thoughts and secrets and truths. Close enough to be family.

Tony still doesn’t know what happened to change it all. 

Howard’s voice is cold and impersonal when he orders, “Make sure you lend attention to the Palmer and Ross heirs tonight. You missed their arrival.” Like Tony’s any other court member, any other tool. And of course, to the king, he is. 

“Yes, sir. A dance?”

“A dance each should be fine.” 

The dismissal is inherent in the king’s tone, and Tony bows and scuttles into the crowd. The light is warm, illuminating every shadow of the pillars, blooming out from sconces and the throne room’s enormous double chandeliers. People nod and flock and crowd as Tony moves within their midst, vying for his eye and attention. He gives it readily. 

When he passes into the great hall, Peter bursts through Tony’s orbit of onlookers. He stays a respectful distance away even as he smiles. 

“Hey Pete,” Tony says. “How’s the party?”

“Fantastic,” Peter cheers. “I’m looking for—”

Tony laughs. “The Frost Prince is skulking around in the throne room still,” he tells the heir. “Go say hi.”

Peter bounds away with a bow and a wave, and Tony watches him go. To a violet-dressed woman beside him, he says, “little guy’s gonna run this palace to the ground someday.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it, Your Highness,” the woman replies. 

Tony spins out through the crowd again, his movements casual but undeniably in rhythm with the musician’s tune. The refreshment tables offer some slight shelter from the swamps of guests. The swamps follow, however, as Tony moves to swipe a drink from the edge of an embroidered tablecloth. 

The room is full of colors. The outfits are flashy, ostentatious, bold. Men sport robes and tunics embroidered with glittering house designs, makeup spotless and unique. Some hold decorative weaponry around their waists or lightly tucked into ankle sheaths. Most women wear draping jewel tone gowns or flowing belts around low-cut shirts. Their hair is elaborate, their jewelry eye-catching, and their movements tailored to show it off. Tony doesn’t have to feign his compliments. The room is filled with peacocks, but that doesn’t make the individual birds any less beautiful.

It’s because of the rainbow of cloth spilled across this room that Tony first notices the streak of grey on its edge. There’s a figure tucked against the great hall’s curling staircase. Tony’s initial impression is that he’s a servant—but that only lasts a moment. 

This is no staff member, but it is no noble, either. The young man stands perfectly straight in a crowd of relaxed partygoers, noticeably taller than most of them. Clothes Tony had thought were grey show shades of navy and maroon when he looks longer. The man’s hands are clasped behind him, and there’s a wrinkle across the front of his shirt as if a piece of jewelry has been tucked away beneath it. His eyes follow the dancers without really focusing on them. 

In fact, Tony thinks, he almost looks confused. Like he can’t quite see them.

Tony sweeps into motion, leaving his entourage behind as best he can. He skates around the edge of the crowd, staying out of the way of the dancers, and approaches the staircase. 

The guests perk up when he comes close, greeting him and respectfully stepping out of his path. The man only looks over when Tony’s standing directly beside him, as though he didn’t expect to be approached. He doesn’t bow. He doesn’t even nod. He just looks at Tony with squinting eyes that Tony thinks must have captured every colorful hue in this room. 

“Hello,” Tony says. 

The man’s gaze is focused, but there’s no recognition there. “Hello,” he echoes. 

And then he turns away from a crown prince and goes back to watching the dancers.

Oh _hell_ yes. Someone gifted Tony a puzzle for Celebration. 

Tony watches the man’s profile without stepping away. He notes the curl of facial hair edged around the man’s mouth and chin, beneath cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood. The man’s dark clothes look thick and heavy, unusual for the warm autumn nights in the heart of the kingdom. He keeps rubbing the back of his left hand.

His fingers are shaking, Tony notices. They’re scarred—intensely so, twisted and misshapen. Tony winces vicariously. 

The man is looking back at him when Tony raises his gaze. He raises a chiseled eyebrow. “Do you mind?”

And _that’s_ gutsy to say to the future king of the realm. Tony grins. “Certainly. What brings you to the castle tonight?”

“There is a rather garish party going on, if it’s escaped your notice.”

“So you’re here to mingle?”

The eyebrow creases higher. “I’m not here to socialize.”

“Really?” Tony steps closer. “I can’t imagine why else one might attend such a ‘rather garish party’. The Dynasty Celebration is designed around a forming of new political bonds before the difficulties of the winter, after all.”

“The Dynasty Celebration was adopted from the peasantry tradition respecting the plenty of the harvest,” the man drawls. “It first came into the court with Queen Meridith of the Quill dynasty after a Revisionist incident that resulted in the marriage of her son with a peasant soldier. It then morphed into the lurid displays the nobility is currently partial to.”

Tony blinks. His puzzle has just accumulated another dozen pieces. 

“So it was designed around enjoyment, then,” Tony recovers quickly.

“You could say that.”

“What are you doing lurking in stairwells in that case?”

The man looks at him again, like he’s trying to read Tony. Those multicolored eyes look almost frustrated when they don’t seem to glean anything from Tony’s practiced neutral expression. 

“Maybe this is just how I enjoy parties,” the man counters. 

“Maybe you’re just a solitary scholar who just don’t know any other way.” Tony lets his weight fall into his right leg and crosses his arms. “Maybe someone should show you.”

“Maybe I’m _not here to socialize,”_ the man says.

“You should be. You obviously don’t know a thing about the court status—and therefore have no idea as to the names of every person in this room.”

The eyebrow disappears into the man’s hair. “You sound dangerously certain about that. What makes you so sure?”

“You don’t know who I am.”

The man huffs. “Of course I know who you are.”

“No you don’t. Go on, what’s my name?”

“I…” The man looks away. “You all look the _same,”_ he grumbles—Tony doesn’t know if he’s supposed to have heard. 

“Everyone knows who I am,” Tony assures. “And I mean everyone.”

“You’re remarkably humble.”

“I’m giving you a hint, come on.” Tony grins. “You’re obviously an educated gentleman.”

The man peers at him again. His eyes seem to split colors like prisms, blue one moment and grey the next. And remarkably, despite all the intelligence Tony can see written across the man’s face, there isn’t even a flicker of recognition. 

“You really don’t know,” Tony blurts.

The man rubs his face with his hands. He mutters something else, something that sounds like _‘how do they tell each other apart?’_

“Okay, then we’ll trade,” Tony says. “My name for yours.”

The young man considers Tony. Shaking hands settle against his sides, and a curl of dark hair escapes onto his forehead. His temples are going grey, despite his age. Slowly, suspiciously, the man introduces himself. “Stephen Strange.”

Tony notes the lack of noble title. Then he grins wide, bows, and says, “Crown Prince Anthony Stark, at your service.”

{(●)}

The Dynasty Celebration is not good cover. 

It is the opposite of good cover—it is horribly inexpedient to anything Stephen wants to accomplish. There are _so many people._ So many people, and each and every one of them could be out to start stabbing princes, which means Stephen can’t risk alerting them to his identity as a Revisionist. If he does, he becomes a target as well, possibly the primary one. As much as Stephen wants to keep the crown prince alive, he is not willing to perish in the process. Therefore, he has to hide his magic. 

Having his Eye closed in the amulet tucked beneath his shirt has one significantly negative side effect, however. 

Stephen can’t _see._

There are a thousand people and a thousand facial expressions and a thousand hidden messages in every sentence they say, and Stephen can’t read any of them. He feels blind, feels like a cat trying to navigate a dark room with its whiskers cut. All of his landmarks have been removed. He can’t see the eddies of energy or the threads of the Communal Timeline that connect individuals so uniquely. Those threads define souls, and those souls are what Stephen is used to seeing. 

Now, he might as well be looking at statues. Identical, featureless statues that strut like wealthy butterflies.

And because Stephen just has to make the worst of every possible situation, he spends ten minutes insulting the future king of Avelshi—the man whose life he’s supposed to save—before he’s even aware he should bow. 

“You’re the prince,” Stephen repeats, staring at the figure in front of him. It’s not too late to bow. Stephen doesn’t. 

“That’s me,” Stark replies. He’s still grinning, and Stephen can’t tell if it’s offended or condescending or genuinely amused and it’s so _fucking frustrating._

“My apologies?” Stephen tries.

It's apparently the right thing to say, for the prince laughs, tipping his chin upward slightly. The lights of the great hall shadow the sharp line of his jaw. 

Stephen commits that angle to memory, assuming one of the physical features non-sorcerers use to identify each other. The red and black robes should be easy to remember as well. Stephen won’t make the same mistake twice. 

“I’ll forgive you, just this once,” the prince says with a wink. 

“I’m deeply grateful,” Stephen says sarcastically before he can catch himself.

The prince laughs again. “Nevermind, it’s fine. Stephen Strange, huh?”

“I know, it’s terrible.”

“No, no, I like it. Alliterative. I have a noble’s heir who’d approve.”

Stephen really hopes said noble’s heir is not someone he’s supposed to be able to recognize. “Oh?”

“Yeah, Peter Parker.” 

Stephen recalls a young face stubbornly holding back tears, watching as Stephen twisted time. Twenty-two days from now, and not an hour ago, Stephen learned the look of the kid’s spirit. 

He probably wouldn’t be able to identify his face, however. So he feigns ignorance. “Never heard of him.”

“That’s alright, not many people have. Parker isn’t a big court name, given the fact that Pete’s the last of the bloodline.” 

“Really?” Stephen is also the last of a bloodline. It doesn’t matter so much in Kamar-Taj, but he’d have thought the court would be far more strict.

“Yeah. But of course, that doesn’t matter to someone not here to socialize.” The prince smirks at him, cocking his head slightly to the left. His hair falls lightly across his forehead. 

“Go on, ask,” Stephen says. “What could someone like me _possibly_ be doing here if not to lick supercilious noble boots for social status?”

“Oh, I know who you are.”

If he himself hadn’t used the exact same tone not four seconds earlier, Stephen would be warranted in being irritated by the hubris dripping off Prince Anthony’s words. That being said, he doesn’t need justification to be annoyed. “Do enlighten me,” he drawls.

“You’re a Revisionist.”

Stephen blinks. He looks at the prince again, as if trying harder to see beneath the honey-and-ruby exterior will result in anything. 

Stark continues, “I’m certain of it. No one without noble title gets an invitation to the Celebration without acting as someone’s plus one, and you’re alone. You’re no peasant, and anyone who uses ‘supercilious’ properly and can detail the specific histories of royal holidays in relation to timelines cannot _possibly_ be illiterate. But you don’t recognize me, even though you must have seen my image before.”

“And Your Highness’s explanation for all that is that I’m _magic?”_

“Well, not right this second; you don’t have your fancy Eye thing open or whatever.” The prince covers his right eye—wrong; that’s obviously his dominant side—with an Eyeless hand, and Stephen bristles at the impertinence of the gesture. It would be horribly insulting from another sorcerer. 

“That’s why you don’t recognize anyone,” Stark concludes. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Stephen considers him for a long second. He supposes honesty would do no harm, as the purpose of (admittedly poorly) hiding his identity is to avoid the notice of the prince’s killer. Unless Stark managed—or will manage, as far as the Communal Timeline is concerned—to murder himself, Stephen doesn’t think anything negative could come from telling the truth. 

And if Stark would be his own killer, this problem is altogether different. 

“You’re right,” Stephen allows. He waits for the suspicion, the distaste, and the polite avoidance that always greets him when his magic is discovered. Not that it isn’t justified, of course. Stephen holds a power that can’t be controlled. He is a symbol that represents helplessness and inconsistency. To some, he isn’t even human. To others, he’s doing the work of every devil humankind has ever come up with. Stephen clasps his scarred hands and waits for judgement. 

It doesn’t come.

“So you’re from the future then? Do they still have sandwiches there?”

Stephen falters. “Uh, yeah, they do?” he says, because he had his whole speech prepared and it’s now been rendered obsolete. “I’m not from _that_ far forward.”

“How long?” Stark cocks his head again—the other direction this time. 

“Seventeen days.”

“Oh, lame. If you’re gonna drop magically into my life, do it with enough style to scramble at least three years of history in the process.”

Stephen, baffled, stares down at the sagely nodding prince beside him. “Is that you joking?” he demands. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

“Yes, this is what I physically look like when I’m being an asshole.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stephen says, his lip twitching.

The prince’s eyes light up. “You smiled.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You did!”

Stephen glowers. “Aren’t you supposed to demand I keep my unnatural influences out of royal business or something?”

Stark shrugs, and his robes sway elegantly with the motion. “I mean, so says my mother. But even I’m not self-destructive enough to drive away the only interesting conversation I’m going to get all night.”

“You are aware there are at least fourteen other guests flagrantly vying for your attention as we speak?” Stephen raises his voice a little, and a number of the surrounding crowd look away conspicuously. _Yeah, that’s what I thought._

“They like it when I play hard to get,” Stark says.

“Something tells me you’re anything but.”

“Is that a challenge, Revisionist Strange?”

“Don’t call me that,” Stephen practically says over him. 

“Why not?” The prince shifts his weight, still sporting that insurgent half-smile. “Is there another title you prefer?”

If Stephen had his Eye, he would be able to read the precise nature of the prince’s jives. If Stephen had his Eye, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. As it is, he can only be intensely frustrated. 

“No,” he sighs. “I’m undercover, Your Highness.”

Stark actually _laughs._ “You are? You’re doing a _terrible job.”_

True as that may be, Stephen still bristles. “Not undercover from you, obviously. But if I wanted the government to know who I am, I would not be subjecting myself to the blindness of having my Eye closed.”

“Is it that bad?”

Stephen looks at the prince of the realm, who’s energies he can recognize off a bad sketch on a newspaper halfway across the Kamar-Taj library but is currently left identifying based solely off the color of his eyes and the shape of his jaw like a _normal person._ “Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll bite; why are you undercover?”

Truth it is, again. “I’m here to stop a murder.”

The interest on Stark’s face is so obvious Stephen can pick up on it even without his magic. “Really?”

Stephen steels himself. “I’m here to stop _your_ murder.”

A blink.

“Oh.”

“Your parents sent me,” Stephen says. “Apparently you died—will die—in five days, on the last night of the Celebration, from the blood loss of some unidentified weapon or power. No one saw it, will see it, and that noble’s heir you were talking about found, will find, your body on the—”

“Shut up.”

The words are sharp, a thousand leagues removed from the tone Stark had used previously. This is the Crown Prince giving Stephen an order, and he obeys almost against his will. Stark has a hand raised between them. It curls into a fist as the silence stretches.

Stephen finds himself relaxing. This makes sense; this he is used to, can deal with. Stephen is far more comfortable managing hostility than kindness.

But again, Stark doesn’t snap further. He lowers his hand and rolls his shoulders back, and though his eyes are a little harder when he looks up, he smiles once more. “Sorry,” he says. “Just… not super used to hearing about my own death like it’s already happened.”

“It has,” Stephen says.

“Right.” The smile flickers, like it’s being held on by sheer force of will.

Oh, right, obviously. “I—I’m here to keep it from happening.” Stephen tries to sound reassuring. “I shouldn’t have phrased it like that. It was insensitive of me.”

Stark huffs. “I suppose treading though timelines like they’re grass blades in a pasture gives death a little bit of a different meaning.”

“But it’s different when it’s your own. So, sorry. Your Highness.”

Stark waves a hand. “Call me Tony,” he says. “Consider it an advance for saving my life.”

“Am I going to be arrested for, I don’t know, slandering and treason?”

Stephen tries for levity, and it works; the grimace beneath Stark’s expression disappears in favor of a laugh. “That’s not how treason works,” he says. 

“I will be holding you to that.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “Why the doubt? Have you been arrested for treason before?”

“Yes.”

Obviously not expecting that answer, Tony rocks back onto his heels. “Oh. When? Why? What did you do?”

“You wouldn’t remember,” Stephen says, and lets that be the explanation it should be. 

“Right.” Tony clears his throat. 

He’s uncomfortable. Stephen’s only partly sure, of course, but he wasn’t always a hermit timekeeper burying his nose in the dusty records of histories long since rewritten. He remembers people—like a muscle memory, he remembers how they act and project and reflect the world around them. So he’s sixty percent sure he has now thoroughly fucked up this conversion. 

He shouldn’t care about that. But he does, undeniably, because Stark’s cooperation is advantageous to his mission. 

This mission that should have been the Ancient One’s, with her power and her wisdom and her experience that has taught him so much, for so long. This mission that should have been hers, but is his instead. 

Stephen looks around, eyes skittering across the array of colors that dance around his no longer so quiet hollow at the edge of the room. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen quite so many people in one place before, and if he has, it wasn’t for any pleasant reason. He definitely hasn’t seen this much money in one place before. The glint of light off the edges of gemstones catches his attention often, and the full, heavy outfits ooze expensiveness. 

It’s beautiful, in a way that makes Stephen’s skin crawl. He doesn’t belong here. He has no costume, and the only jewelry he wears is his amulet. It's heavy and high quality of course, always out of place in comparison to the rest of Stephen, but the amulet is Order traditional and antique in design. It's nothing like the gemstones that flash around this room. The dust of the Kamar-Taj libraries is still dark under Stephen's fingernails. 

Stephen rubs unconsciously at the scars across his twisted fingers. A tray of sparkling glasses passes within arms reach, halfway full with unidentified liquid, and Stephen risks it. The bowl shape isn’t conducive to spilling; he probably won’t make a mess. He whisks two glasses from their perches and offers one to Tony. 

The prince raises an eyebrow.

“What?” Stephen looks down at the long-necked glasses in his grip and has to actively force himself not to pull back self-consciously. 

“The Order doesn’t throw many parties, then,” Tony snorts. 

They do, actually. The Order recognizes the loops of the seasons, the movements of the stars, and the accomplishments of its students. The sorcerer’s celebrations are those of renewal, of constants, of chance. They’re low ceilings and shared challenges and thoughtful gifts all understood on deeper levels through the lids of open Eyes. Stephen grew up with the silvery-red gaze of the Ancient One wishing him happy birthday. 

He doesn’t say this to Tony. But he does wonder if the prince would find them as strange as Stephen finds this place. 

“Here—” Tony takes one of the glasses, extracting it from Stephen’s hold— “you hold it like this.”

He curls his fingers delicately around the stem of the glass, letting his pinkie finger hover. It mirrors the curve of his cocked eyebrow. Stephen narrows his eyes, studying the hold as though he’s in a fencing lesson, and slowly shifts his own grip to match. It’s unsteady in his shaking fingers, but he manages from some combination of stubbornness and ingenuity. 

“There you go.” A grin. 

“This seems remarkably inefficient.”

“And _you_ are a killjoy.”

“I have been reliably informed that I’m the funniest sorcerer in the Order.”

Tony winces, and Stephen’s starting to get the hang of this; he thinks the wince is exaggerated. “Remind me to fire all of you when I’m crowned.”

“You’ll owe me a life debt.”

“Not if I’m dead!”

Stephen takes a break from staring suspiciously at the liquid he’s probably supposed to start ingesting in order to stare suspiciously at Tony. “I thought we were supposed to avoid that.”

“Yes, that would be preferable. Speaking of; what’s your approach here? Just loom in the background until someone pulls a knife on me and then whisk in at the last second?”

Stephen shakes his head. “No one should even get the chance to pull a knife.”

“Aw, Stephen, so galant already.”

Stephen suddenly finds a suitable use for drinking that suspicious liquid. 

“The _point_ is,” he sighs when he’s finished analyzing the taste, “I need to be prepared. Working backwards; why it happens where, when, and how it will.” Or did, depending on who’s timeline you’re following. 

“Alright, alright. I’ll let you know if I plan to do anything to provoke my own death.”

“Thank you very much.”

The prince grins again, wider this time, and takes a sip of his drink. There’s still a number of mouthfuls left when he lowers the glass, and Stephen glances at his now-empty glass. 

He wonders why he feels so unsteady. A clear goal and a recognizable time limit are usually all he needs to work quickly and efficiently in a Revisionist scenario. He’s a record-keeper, but he’s no amateur to missions, not with the kind of power he wields. Not that said power is doing him any _good_ with his Eye locked shut against his chest. 

Stephen watches the coordinated movements of the dancers and listens to the beautiful accompanies of the musicians and tries to reconstruct his focus. It doesn’t matter that the prince now has a face and an identity in his mind. It doesn’t matter that this would have been the Ancient One’s task. It doesn't matter that Stephen is here because someone almost killed the only constant his life has ever had, tore part of her soul away and disappeared into nothingness. It doesn’t matter.

It happened just days ago, here.

Just days ago, and he isn’t there, he isn’t with her, he’s _here_ instead in this cloying castle and its backstabbing inhabitants, because he can’t be two places at once, because he’s— 

_Focus._

It doesn’t matter. It’s not about him. Revisionists are spared that selfishness.

“Opinions on dancing?” 

Stephen blinks, realizing he’s been following the movement for far too long. Tony’s watching him easily, like he’s been watching Stephen the whole time, and takes another short sip from a now nearly-empty glass.

“I have to focus,” he says. He has to focus. 

“Right, of course. Not here to socialize.” 

Does Tony _ever_ stop _smirking?_ How can Stephen possibly be expected to deal with a prince whose smile is so subtly asymmetric in reflection of the shape of his jaw?

“Yes. I have to save your life, remember? Dancing is not… applicable to my productivity.”

“How about a tour then?” Tony persists. “Would that be ‘applicable to your productivity’, wizard?”

“Not a wizard.”

“Come on, close enough.” 

Stephen closes his eyes and inhales as pointedly as humanly possible. Then he says, “fine, yes. A tour could be helpful.”

He does need to figure out where he is. He knows the way to the main entrance from his escort hours-turned-weeks ago, but what matters more is the ‘when’ of things. If he has to turn back time again, he needs to know what the consequences of revising his own previous actions will be Communally. The repeat will have no effect on him—it isn’t about him—so a Revisionist must always analyze his options. Rewriting oneself creates more risks. And loop creates dangers.

Besides that, well. Stephen will need a place to sleep.

“Perfect.” Tony rubs his hands together. “Follow me, then.”

{(●)}

Tony doesn’t know exactly how it happens. He’s given castle tours before, always as fronts for the exchange of trust they represented—opening one’s home and place of power. Beyond that, Obediah exclusively suggests Tony provide an escort as an excuse for an individual or group to stay in his presence. It’s a weapon in his political hand. 

This Revisionist takes that weapon out of Tony’s fingers and points it right back at him. 

Stephen Strange is interested. Genuinely so. He listens to Tony’s descriptions, no matter how random or tangential they become. He asks questions about architecture and politics. Tony spends a long while waiting for the questions to twist back to personal, powerful, or political queries, and he’s not sure if he’s offended or not that Stephen doesn’t seem to care about him or the crown that will be his in the slightest. Any ulterior motives—beyond being a secret sorcerer from the future, of course—are completely hidden. 

Tony finds himself in the opposite roll. It’s him, this time, using the tour as an excuse not to return to the Celebration and the ever-increasing list of individuals whose favor he should be gaining. Using it as an excuse to stick around Strange instead. 

So he finds himself climbing through the stories of the castle, deeper and more personal than he’d intended. Instead of describing ballrooms, courtrooms, kitchens, and ornamental spaces, he finds himself describing servants quarters, the doors of the strongroom, armories, stairs to the clocktower’s turret, and his own quarters. They even wind outside along the walls of the courtyard for a few moments. Tony points out the great bay window above the northern courtyard. It’s one of his favorite places, even if it is said to be haunted. There’s a window seat there, and the window looks out on most of the castle. 

Stephen asks about the carved eagle’s wings, the tapestries, even the suits of armor placed decoratively in the occasional corner on the lower levels. Most of the time, Tony answers with their most applicable function; to make an impression on allies and enemies alike. This place serves a purpose. It serves it well.

The music of the Celebration is their constant companion, mingling and fading depending on their distance. The fiddles carry the furthest. They flicker through the open windows on the third floor as Tony points out the room who’s fireplace he raided just that morning. 

“This room backs up against that set of lavatories, doesn’t it? How does it have space for a chimney?” Stephen peers around the back of the fireplace as if he could somehow glean the answer from the wall behind it. Maybe he could. Magic and all that. 

“It shouldn’t,” Tony agreed. “It combines with the chimney passage of the next hall over.” 

Stephen looks to the corner of the room, his eyes narrowing. “Fire hazard,” he observes.

Tony chuckles. “You’re just picking up on that now? It’s fine, the water reaches up this far, so if anything burst into flame it wouldn’t necessarily devour the heart of the kingdom.”

“That’s remarkably comforting,” Stephen says dryly.

“Hey, it’s warm, isn’t it?”

“So is burning to death.”

“I’ll be sure to cite you for the remodeling bill.”

The Revisionist lets out a huffing breath that _might_ have been a laugh, and Tony feels triumphant. He continues, “even if the halls caught fire, there’s safeguards to keep anything from damaging the relic room and the library.”

Stephen looks toward him sharply, head whipping the rest of his body around like he couldn’t quite help himself. He’s lit up like a candle—like an entire chandelier. 

It changes Stephen’s entire demeanor. The distinguished aloofness eases, and a frown edging into a smile makes the angles of his face impossibly sharper. Shoulders half-hiked in interest wrinkle his simple, dark clothes. His untouchable, almost inhuman aura falls into something truly earnest, and his eyes glint with all those jewel tones. Tony realizes Strange might even be younger than him.

“You have a library?” Stephen says. 

And Tony has to laugh, here in the doorway he’d stood in this morning and facing a sorcerer whom he might as well have given a pocketful of gold. 

“Yes,” he says, “we have a library. Second largest in the kingdom next to Shieldeir, but the university can’t claim half the rarities we’ve got.”

Stephen vibrates.

“Here, I’ll show you,” Tony laughs again, and he reaches out to take Stephen’s hand.

The Revisionist slips out of his reach faster than Tony would have thought possible. He tucks his hands against his sides, and the scars gleam wetly in the firelight. “Please don’t touch them,” he says flatly. 

Tony takes a step back. “Oh. I’m sorry.” 

Stephen takes a quick breath. His shoulders square again, and he smiles. “I’ll forgive you, but only if libraries are involved.”

“Oh, that I can provide.”

Tony skips backward, sliding into the outer hall and orienting himself leftward. Stephen’s long strides bring him up to flank Tony a moment later. They duck toward the northeast, away from the turrets, and Tony bounces a little to the music he can still hear.

“The library’s technically closed for the Celebration,” Tony says, “as it’s not exactly a place for making political connections. And, y’know, treasure of Avelshi and all that. So try not to get us caught.”

“You don’t have to let me in.”

Tony looks over at him and raises an eyebrow. “After you practically exploded at the mention of it? Yes I do.”

Strange looks away, and the shadows between wall sconces don’t allow Tony to glimpse his face. Grinning again, Tony says, “besides, my father never outright _forbade_ me from bringing guests up here. He just assumed I’d be in the courtyard dancing with damsels and securing my reputation.”

“‘Never make assumptions of the Crown Prince’,” Stephen says, miming taking notes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that.”

They weave through the castle, passing a few sprinting servants who give Tony looks of veiled suspicion as they go. Tony waves to them. He knows every one of his movements are effectively broadcasted throughout the castle on the backs of gossip and interest. It’s worked to his advantage on multiple occasions. 

When the reach the great doors of the library, Tony hears a rustle above the faint noises of the distant Celebration. He pauses, and Stephen does the same. The doors creak, then groan, and Stephen and Tony press themselves out of sight in the shadows of the nearest corner as the left one slides open. A figure emerges, a book tucked under their arm, robes swirling around their ankles. 

Tony relaxes when it’s only Obediah who steps into the light. The Royal Advisor doesn’t even pause, just striding down the hall to a left that leads to the west turret and his quarters. His footsteps are soon lost to the halls and the faraway music. 

“Ghost is clear,” Tony says. He skips across the hall to catch the door before it drifts all the way closed. Holding it open, he beckons Stephen into the dusty light of the library and steps in behind him. 

Instantly, that constant melody is muted behind thick walls and heavy shelves. Clean candlelight shines behind bubbles of glass placed considerately in numerous corners of an enormous room. Lanterns hang motionless from gilded hooks that curl off the edges of shelves in the shape of wings. There are round tables and wrought chairs scattered comfortably, each the same color as their shadows. The tight spiral staircase rises in the center. It blooms off at the top into bridge-like walkways that make use of the top of the shelves as support. Arching ceilings reach to a comfortable height above them, just enough space for the balconies and nooks. 

The whole place is patterned with feathers, turning the spidery array of the second level into the skeleton of a wing. Metal is almost as common as the wood. It keeps the scaffold secure—and it doesn’t hurt the beautiful, elegant display of wealth this room is designed around. It’s always warm under one’s fingers. It smells more of dust than metal. 

And of course, there are the books. Books, ordered with precision on their shelves, lying open for later study on tables, stacked for tidying on the steps of the stairs and beneath the lamps. Maps and older scrolls glow with absorbed firelight in their alcoves. Tony swears he can hear them whispering. 

“What do you think?” Tony says, voice low. He looks to Stephen. 

The Revisionist is no longer at his side. 

Tony blinks, then looks around hurriedly, and catches a tall shadow ducking into the labyrinth of shelves. He grins. Trotting after Stephen, Tony swipes one of the candles from a nearby table and shields the flame with his hand. 

“Hey, Stephen,” Tony calls, a little louder this time. He chases the young man halfway across the enormous room before he catches him between two shelves, a long finger trialing over ancient spines. 

There’s a comfort in Stephen’s movements, a familiarity. Tony thinks he can picture Stephen here in a way he never could in the ballroom—this is somewhere the sorcerer feels he belongs. 

“Guess I was right about the solitary scholar thing,” Tony jokes, stepping up to read the titles of the books Stephen’s observing. 

“I am a record-keeper,” Stephen says distractedly. 

“What?”

“A record-keeper. That’s what I do.”

“I thought you were a Revisionist,” Tony says, frowning slightly. 

Stephen glances at him, one side of his mouth hitching up into a smirk. “There’s a lot more to the Order than just jumping around rewriting timelines, you know.”

“There’s a lot about the Order that we don’t know,” Tony replies. He follows Stephen around the corner of the shelves and leans up against a nearby table when the sorcerer stops again. 

“It didn’t used to be that way,” Stephen tells him.

“Oh?”

“Mm.” He tugs a book off the shelf and opens it on one forearm. “Before your parents' reign, the Order and the monarchy worked closely. The castle hosted a number of master Revisionists for the use and aid of the king. Queen Maria’s regulations have imposed separation, but also a number of freedoms for the Order as almost an independent group. We aren’t our own government, but we aren’t citizens either.”

Tony knows most of this. “She hasn’t halted the exchange of information.”

“Of course not. But with respect, there are aspects of cultures that are forgotten when those cultures are excluded or feared by another.” 

“The Order isn’t a culture.”

Stephen looks at him, still wearing that half-smirk. “Aren’t we?”

Tony doesn’t have a response to that. “What sorts of aspects do you mean?”

“The specifics of the oaths we hold ourselves to. What we are and aren’t allowed to meddle with. The histories we record. The capabilities of the Eye. The actual mechanics of time travel.” Stephen shrugs. “I could go on.”

“And you’re a records-keeper.”

“One of many. We document every change made to the Communal Timeline and every resulting shift those changes make in turn. We keep an accurate, up-to-date description of the official history of the world so a Revisionist returning from a jump can understand the timeline they’re now living in.”

“Wait,” Tony raises a hand. “A Revisionist needs to be informed? Don’t they remember living in the new timeline as well?”

Stephen closes the book and slides it back into the gap he removed it from. The blue cover flashes in the candlelight. He turns to face Tony, leaning against the shelf and crossing his arms. 

“A Revisionist lives separate from the Communal Timeline,” he explains. “Our memories don’t reflect it; they reflect our own experiences only.”

“They’re never rewritten.”

“Not by our own jumps,” Stephen agrees. “Our life proceeds linearly no matter how many times we go back or forward in time.” 

“Huh.” Tony leans forward, elbows on his knees, interested. “So what happened, for example, when you came back here?”

“As far as anyone else is concerned, I suddenly disappeared from my rooms in Karmar-Taj without warning. I was assisting with the recovery—” he breaks off, clearing his throat. 

Tony frowns. 

Stephen continues before Tony can open his mouth. “An onlooker will remember I was doing recording work until the exact second I arrived in the throne room of this castle—and from that moment forward I have been doing work here. But as far as my own personal memories are concerned, I completed that recording work, moved on to a new task, and then was summoned to the castle in a world where you had been dead for a week and a half. Because that’s what happened to _me._ It’s just not what happened to everyone else.” 

Tony squints. “So you’re never in two places at once. Your jump rewrites your own actions, but not your own memories.”

“Exactly.” There’s a hint of surprise in Stephen’s gaze when Tony nods in understanding. 

He’s not used to people keeping up with him. Well, Tony can say the same. It’s refreshing, and thoughts of the Celebration and the rules Tony’s currently breaking fade from his mind completely. 

“That’s interesting,” Tony muses. “So what if you went back in time right now? To just a few minutes ago?”

“Well, I would land here in this exact position a few minutes ago. Which would mean I would have disappeared from your side in the hallway without warning, prompting you to take entirely different actions. You likely would never end up asking that question in the first place, and you wouldn’t ever become curious.”

Tony blinks slowly. “Trippy,” he says.

“You could say so.”

“So as far as I know, you’ve already done that. Countless times, and this is just the result of a day you’ve lived a thousand times over already?”

Stephen’s expression freezes. “As far as you know, yes,” he says. “But I haven’t.”

“I believe you,” Tony assures. Something tells him he needs to. 

“You have no reason to. There is absolutely no proof I can offer.”

Tony changes the subject. “What about your oaths then? Does that have to do with what you can and can’t meddle with?”

Stephen nods, and the movement is still frigid. “There are countless. Any mission must receive approval from the masters or the Ancient One, and it can only be suggested if a certain number of negative consequences are achieved by the event that would be Revised.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“Yes,” Stephen says. Tony wants to cheer when a bit of wit thaws the sorcerer’s tone. 

He asks, “do Revisionists ever break their oaths?”

Stephen nods. “Like any power, time walking attracts ambition, and sometimes that gets out of hand. Revisionists like Mephisto and more recently Kaecilius are some who’ve gone too far.” 

“Can anything be rewritten?” Tony can’t contain his interest. “In theory, at least, regardless of if it’s out of moral bounds?”

“Not everything. There are events that just _always_ seem to occur, no matter what we do. They’re called anchor points, and they’re very powerful. A Revisionist can sometimes cause them, and the surge of timeline energy is so strong that it completely erases their limitations, allowing them to travel far back or forward in time as they wish.”

Stephen lifts a hand to the knot beneath the front of his shirt, playing with the amulet that’s hidden there. Tony’s curious, but he’s sure there must be _some_ rule about when you can invite a Revisionist to expose their Eye. Different culture and all that. 

“The Ancient One has caused two in her lifetime,” Stephen says. The words aren’t quiet, but they're tinged with something Tony can’t identify. 

“No wonder she’s so powerful.”

Stephen looks away, pulling another book off the shelf. He frowns at something on the second page, then looks to the array of books and reshelves the book in his hand in a new order. He removes another. Then he ducks over to the opposite shelf and plucks two more tomes, stacking them atop the first. His shaking hands disturb the dust in scattered patterns. 

Tony watches him. He watches the smooth grace Stephen seems to tap into unconsciously. The sorcerer keeps his left hand free whenever possible, and Tony assumes it’s a muscle memory from the Eye he’s keeping resolutely closed. Pages rustle and books are propped open on their shelves in interest. The single-minded focus with which Stephen attacks the subjects around him is captivating. _He’s_ captivating. 

And he’s ignoring Tony. Which only makes him more fascinating, in all honesty. Tony is used to the dance of politics, the cloying interest of people seeking power. He’s used to individuals who obey and respect status. He’s used to individuals who _care_ about status. People do as Tony says because he has power, and it would be a lie to say he doesn’t expect and enjoy it. 

Tony’s pretty sure the only thing an order would get him from Stephen would be a raised eyebrow and judgement. 

“You said my parents hired you,” Tony finds himself saying. He picks up a book from the table behind him. The last thing he wants to think about is the time-travel-shaped string his life is currently dangling from, but everything is backwards today anyway. 

It’s the Dynasty Celebration, and Tony’s alone with the most enthralling individual he’s ever met—and they’re _talking_ in the _library_ instead of drunk in a secluded corner. 

_If he were anyone else in the kingdom, I could have him with one word._

But Tony’s not complaining, remarkably. 

“They did,” Stephen says, preoccupied. “Separative regulations mean little in the face of grief.”

Tony’s words skate away at that. He never realized—well, stupid as it sounds, it hadn’t exactly occurred to him that people would have to _mourn_ him if he died. Death sounds like it sucks ass in general, but the thought of what it would mean for others makes it worse.

He can imagine his mother’s tears, Obediah’s stoicism, Pepper and Rhodey’s twisted expressions. And Peter—hell, what it would do to the kid, to lose Tony now after everything Peter’s already been through. 

It’s hard to picture his father grieving, but Tony imagines silence and a vulnerability in Howard’s expression he would never have shown otherwise. He imagines the uncompromising demand he would place on the the Order and on Stephen—refusing to even consider a world where he didn’t get Tony back.

It feels nice to imagine. But Tony doesn’t quite believe it. 

“Why’d they send you, of all people? Not that you aren’t…” _Fascinating, tantalizing, brilliant._ “... capable?”

“They sent me because they couldn’t send the Ancient One.”

“Why not?”

Stephen sets the books down suddenly, the thump echoing through the library. He takes a long breath, and for a moment, something like grief echoes through his expression. Something like guilt. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, almost to himself. Then louder: “I’m here because I am the best choice. And I should get back to my mission.”

Tony stands. “What is it?”

“Nothing. Or, nothing yet.” Stephen cracks a half-hearted grin. “I just need to focus.”

“You’ve got time.” _Literally._

“The first night is nearly over. I’ve wasted enough of it already.” There’s steel in Stephen’s tone—not angry, but resigned. 

And he’s right, of course he’s right. They’ll be looking for Tony by now, targeting the king and queen with issues more appropriate for the crown prince. He still has to lend an ear to those nobles his father had mentioned. It isn’t unlike him to shirk his duties, but even he has a line, and he knows he’s toeing it. 

He doesn’t care. He’d run right up to it without even noticing, and he knows _exactly_ why.

“Alright,” Tony says. He moves into the shelves to help Stephen return the books he’d been perusing. There’s silence as they work, and for the first time, it’s awkward.

They both hesitate at the door to the library. On the border between the warm-lit books and the faint sound of fiddles and laughter, they catch each other’s eye. Tony smiles on instinct, and it’s the smile of a crown prince—and maybe a little bit more.

“Thanks in advance. For saving my life,” he says, for the second time tonight. 

He means it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catch my shameless use of a Star Trek aos quote. 
> 
> The plot threads begin to dance around each other... nervous yet? XD. Drop me some feedback if you've got a moment, and thanks so much for reading. <3


	3. The Second Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Ready for another installment? Featuring: the ethics of time travel. 
> 
> Also, many thanks to my beta, multi-fandom-disaster-deactivated on tumblr. You're the best!  
> All mistakes are mine. <3
> 
> Enjoy!

A shriek wakes Stephen up the next morning, and he bolts upright before he remembers where he is. His head cracks against the half-open cupboard above him hard enough to send him reeling. Stephen clasps his left hand over his eye on instinct. He sees only blackness, which only serves to disorient him further.

“Woah, woah,” the shrieking voice says. “Sorry, you just surprised me.”

Stephen blinks, lifting his hand from his eye in favor of rubbing at his aching head. A face swims into focus in front of him. There’s a woman standing with one hand on the open cupboard door, her blue eyes squinting at him in return. Her strawberry-blonde hair is still done up in a knot that looks just disheveled enough to be remnant from the party the night before. Her uniform is that of a servant, but Stephen is loath to designate her as such. She must hold some power here—perhaps of productivity. 

“Hi,” Stephen grunts, straightening up on the tile floor and carefully standing. He avoids the door this time. The cupboard he slept against has left the pattern of its door handles pressed into the skin under his shoulder blade. It itches. 

“Hi,” the woman says, incredulous. “Are you okay?”

“Yes?”

“Then who are you and what the  _ hell  _ are you doing sleeping in my kitchen?”

Stephen frowns; he doesn’t think this woman is a cook. He wishes, yet again, he didn’t have his Eye closed and hidden on his chest. A day without it is already giving him a headache. 

“Your kitchen?” he wonders.

She brandishes a finger at him. “Name's Potts. I’m staffmaster of this castle, and I know for certain you don’t belong here. So explain.”

“I’m, uh, here for the Celebration,” Stephen says. 

“Yeah, so is half the kingdom and the next one over. Do better.”

Would the keep staffmaster murder her prince? What reason might she have to do so? Did she have the dexterity to take Tony by surprise, or the combat strength to overpower the obviously well-trained swordsman?

“I’m here in place of my master,” Stephen says, and it’s not exactly a lie. “I wasn’t able to secure lodgings.”

He tries to look conscious of the plainness of his clothes, the way they’re stitched for an entirely different climate. An assumption that he’s unprepared because of lack of funds wouldn’t be farfetched. Stephen lowers his eyes in the manner of a peasant and hopes she makes said assumption.

Potts rubs a hand over her face and gives a long suffering sigh. “Why,” she mutters. “Why? Can’t we get through  _ one morning  _ without some gremlin throwing off half the staff? Apparently not!”

Stephen tries and fails not to chuckle. Potts notices, and the glare she gives him is ever-so-slightly amused. 

“Sorry,” Stephen says. “I’ll leave—”

_ “Sit your ass down,” _ Potts snaps. 

Stephen does, slumping into the nearest chair. His clothes are sticky and his stomach is rumbling, and he hopes she can’t tell, though he knows it’s in vain. 

“How did you even get in here?” Potts demands. “We aren’t exactly easily accessed from the great hall or the throne room.”

“The prince gave me a tour,” Stephen replies honestly. 

The hands go back up to rub Pott’s face again, more viciously this time. “Tony goddamn Stark, I should have known this had something to do with you.”

Stephen doesn’t react, but he notes her familiarity with the prince with some surprise. Even he, unpracticed and Eyeless, can’t miss the rueful fondness in her words. Good; she’s less likely to be a knife-wielding murderer if she’s close to the murderee.

Potts asks him, “if the prince showed you around, why’d you end up in the kitchens? Surely he had some better ideas for where to stow a stray.”

Stephen raises an eyebrow. “I’m broke, not suicidal.”

Potts snorts. “Yes, I guess that would be rather bold. Status and all that. But his Highness is really not all that intimidating, you know. You can tell him to fuck off and he’ll listen. He’s not a complete bastard.”

“I know,” Stephen says, and he’s surprised to find it’s true. 

“Well, if you were alone with Tony already and didn’t assassinate him when you had the chance, I suppose I won’t set Rhodes on you.” Potts puts her hands on her hips, assessing him like he’s a particularly problematic table centerpiece. 

“Thank you,” Stephen says. He’s getting the feeling he should grovel. 

“Which noble sent you? What do they want?”

Stephen fumbles. “Madam—Tao. She’s, uh, a new professor at the university. I’m here to further her research.”

Potts frowned. “And she didn’t secure you rooms?”

“She can be… easily sidetracked.”

“Ah.” Potts nods. “Vishanti knows I know how  _ that  _ feels. Let’s get you something to eat, then. And something to wear that doesn’t make you look like you just wandered in here from the Far Reaches.”

With that, she sweeps across the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets above the hanging pots and pans and the drying preserves. 

“What?” Stephen is taken aback. “That’s—you don’t have to—”

“I’m here anyway, aren’t I?”

“It’s fine. I’ll eat at the Celebration.”

Potts levels him with a look, stepping away from the cabinets with something in her grip. “Never let it be said I don’t take care of the gremlins I find stowing away around here,” she declared.

Then she slams a pair of sausages onto the table in front of him abruptly enough that he jumps. A thin roll of bread follows. Stephen’s gut takes that inconvenient moment to grumble again, effectively undermining his protests. Potts glares at him until he accepts the food, keeping his gaze as he bites into it.

“So, what’s your name, then, gremlin?” 

Stephen manages “Strange” through a mouthful of sausage. 

“Yeah, mine too. The nickname is debatably worse, but oh well.”

Stephen refrains from sighing. “No, it’s actually Strange. That’s my name, Strange.”

“Oh. Oh!” Potts laughs. “Sorry. I suppose you get that a lot?”

“You have no idea.” Stephen rips off a hunk of bread, and it’s delightfully— expensively— fluffy. 

“How are you liking the celebrations so far?”

Stephen finishes chewing, using it as an excuse to think through his response. “It’s been beautiful,” he says. “I assume you managed it from the sidelines?”

Potts raises one fist in a half-hearted cheer. “That’s me.”

“I’m impressed. There was certainly a crowd, but the music and the décor never seemed crowding.”

“Thanks,” Potts says.

Stephen adds, “though a university page could only hate it.”

Potts pauses, then chuckles. “I suppose that’s what we’re going for. Flamboyance is the lifeblood of this castle.”

Stephen only huffs in response, and she says nothing else. Finishing the rest of his generous breakfast in silence, he considers his options. A change of clothes sounds luxurious. He doesn’t want to let his robes out of his sight, but perhaps he can keep track of them or even manage to wash them. Servants talk, but if he has the staffmaster’s approval, he might manage to pull off at least a small amount of personal hygiene. 

Then there’s the staffmaster herself. Stephen is confident she’s not the person he’s here to stop, given her fondness for the prince. He can’t rule anything out, of course, but the risk has lowered enough that Stephen can relax. If his cover to her is blown, his mission will not be. 

Stephen swallows the last of the sausage and licks the grease off his shaking fingers. His head is throbbing where he bashed it against the cupboard door, but he pettily refuses to acknowledge it. Potts gives his scars a questioning glance when he rests his hands on his knees. Stephen doesn’t acknowledge that either. 

“Come with me,” Potts says, standing. She moves to the far side of the room, toward the small door that leads into the servants halls, not the courtroom they’re adjacent to. Stephen follows, not bothering to push in his chair. 

They duck through the narrow spaces, and Stephen observes just how different this part of the palace is from the arching elegance Tony showed him the night before. This feels used, efficient, purposeful. These halls don’t hide anything. They don’t make promises, and it’s both comforting and not.

Stephen ends up in an office, one draped in fabric in every corner and over every surface he can see. Half-finished garments are gathered across a desk on one side. A number of fully assembled clothes are organized precisely along the wall, and Stephen squints at them with no little suspicion. Picking her way through the room with familiarity, Potts doesn’t pause before she begins rifling through them.

“You’re a tailor, too?” Stephen wonders.

“One of a vast number. It's a wonder how I have time for all of it.”

“How do you?”

“Magic.”

Stephen manages an awkward chuckle, and is mercilessly spared from the magic subject by the  _ fwump  _ of fabric hitting him in the face. Catching it before it hits the floor, Stephen finds his hands full of navy cotton. The robes are light. The material shifting over his skin is soft, and Stephen would be able to trace the quality through the lids of his Eye. 

“Thanks,” he provides.

“Don’t mention it. You can’t spoil all my hard work on this Celebration with an aesthetic like that. By which I mean ‘mountain hermit.’”

Stephen looks down at his robes, a little self-consciously. He likes them. They’re warm, and old, and he’s had them since the Ancient One found him, expanded as he’s grown. But they certainly signal him out in a place like this. The whole point is to blend in, after all. 

Stephen tugs at his sleeves, freeing them from the tangle of fabric he holds, and goes to turn. Potts' voice stops him. 

“Oh, wait, if you have jewelry let me make sure this won’t clash.”

Stephen opens his mouth to say he has none when he realizes the chain of his amulet has slithered free of his collar. He tucks it away hurriedly. “It’s fine.”

He must have done something strange, spoken too flatly, for Potts’ eyes narrow. “Why hide it?”

Stephen should say it’s unsightly, should make some excuse. He can’t bring himself to even pretend to be ashamed of his Eye, however, and no lie breaks through his teeth. The silence stretches, fraught with tension. 

“I better not have just made breakfast for a thief,” Potts growls. 

“I’m not a thief,” Stephen sighs.  _ I’m just a sorcerer who’s terrible at staying unnoticed.  _

“Sure, because you’re a  _ university servant. _ Who forgot lodgings.”

Stephen groans under his breath. “Look—”

“What possible reason do you have to lie?” There’s defensive anger in Potts' blue eyes. That, Stephen doesn’t need his Eye to see. She takes a step forward, effectively caging Stephen away from the door.

Phantom hands close over Stephen’s wrists, and he feels himself go rigid. His hands shake harder. They’re hidden in the folds of the navy fabric, and the soft material is suddenly coarse and itchy and confining. On instinct, he closes his left hand offensively around his amulet. It’s a protective movement to anyone but a Revisionist, and Potts takes it as such. 

“I can bring the guard here in seconds,” she warns. Stephen doesn’t doubt it.

He gets himself under control with a snap. Long-ago panic is buried beneath layers of determination, and Stephen straightens and narrows his eyes. 

“I’m from the future,” he says. He lifts his chin, drawing on his height, and he frees his amulet from around his neck. The bronze weight swings between his hands for a moment. He sees Potts eyes widen; as soon as she recognizes it, he shoves the Eye back beneath his shirt.

“Oh,” she says.  _ “Oh.” _

“Yeah,” Stephen snaps. “So thank you for your assistance, but I’m going to need you to forget you ever saw me, if you value my mission and the orders of your king. That is, if you value your Crown Prince’s life.”

“Is Tony okay?” 

Not the assassin then. “He will be, if I succeed. Which would be greatly assisted by you going back to having found a university servant hiding in the kitchen.”

Potts squints at him. “Why don’t you go back for me?”

Stephen does  _ not  _ roll his eyes. “Because I respect free will,” he says. “Because I’m not going to play god with your memories just for my own convenience. I’m not a monster.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,  _ ‘oh’.”  _ He sighs, running his hands through the fabric in his hands. “Look, thanks for your help. I do appreciate it. Just…it would be prudent if you didn’t get me arrested.”

Potts looks slightly lost. “Sure,” she says awkwardly. “And you’re welcome?”

“Am I dismissed?”

“Pretty sure you outrank me.”

Stephen grins. “Do I? Well, like I said, I’m broke, not suicidal.”

Potts laughs at that, a bit of her tension easing, and Stephen gives an elaborate bow. Then he hauls ass and hopes the staff master is better at keeping secrets then he is. 

{(●)}

As afternoon rolls ever-further toward evening, Tony sits on the edge of the dais in the throne room and watches the preparations. The second night of the Dynasty Celebration is draped in green. There’s a sense of life about the decorations Tony watches the servants set up, spots of color breaking through the earthy tones of the castle walls. 

It makes sense, thinking about what Stephen had told him the night before. The Celebration is in honor of the harvest. It’s poetic that the second night should reflect the second stage of the growth cycle, germination, where the night before had indicated seeding. Which means tomorrow will be budding, followed by flowering, and ending on the ripening of crops ready to be collected. 

Tony braces his elbows on the dais behind him, stretching one leg out long. His father is in court with the Myth Princes, and Peter is taking the opportunity to ready himself for the Celebration. The sky is beginning to tinge yellow-pink from sunset, like someone spilled strawberry juice along the edges of the clouds. Tony can see it through his favorite, supposedly haunted bay window, the one rising over the north courtyard. The throne room is surrounded by a balcony, its roof stretching up through the second and third floors of the castle, so the window is visible from where Tony sprawls. 

His mind is scattered, bits of thoughts and half-built schemes knocking against each other like gears in the clocktower. He thinks about peasantry traditions. He thinks about the lost aspects of alien cultures. He thinks about Revisionist protocol.

And he thinks about how much he likes this spot, just a little to the left of where he’s supposed to be, watching his kingdom from a slightly different perspective. Tony would miss it quite a lot if he was dead. 

Maybe he wishes Stephen hadn’t told him. Waiting for a magician to thwart his own death is just about the most surreal thing Tony can imagine.

He doesn’t wish it for very long, however. Tony is first and foremost an innovator, and he deserves a hand in solving this problem—this problem that is the most important thing to ever happen to him and a turning point for the fate of his kingdom. What sort of heir would he be to plow through it in ignorance?

Tony is still sitting there, thinking about death and time and futures, when his mother settles into her seat on the dais. The old throne creaks to the familiar tone Tony has heard since he was mere months old. 

“Hi, Mom,” he says. He lifts a hand in greeting.

“Tony,” she replies, and there’s a smile in her voice. 

“How were the negotiations?” 

“Utterly unproductive.”

As usual, on day one of an extended stay. Each government is testing the other’s hand, gauging reactions, understanding where they stand and what they have to gain. It would be concerning if anyone had agreed to terms too quickly—like one party was getting played. Tony nods. 

“And the preparations?” the queen asks in turn.

Tony snorts. “Like Pepper would ever do this anything but flawlessly.”

Maria laughs, and it makes Tony relax. His mother’s laugh is not a queen’s laugh; it is  _ her  _ laugh, and it’s Tony’s childhood refined into one frequency. 

“We’re lucky to have her,” Maria says. 

“That we are.”

The first group of musicians pours into the throne room, beginning to assemble their ensemble in the corner designated for them. Tony watches them scurry. He wonders which fiddle was the stubborn sound he heard the entirety of last night. His feet are sore from dancing to its merciless tune, and his entire form is reminding him that he didn’t fall into bed until dawn. 

He wants to dance again tonight. He hopes he can convince someone specific to allow him one. 

“Tell me something, Mom,” he says, craning his head backwards to observe Maria upside-down. She smiles at him. 

“Yes?”

“Why the regulations on the Order?” Tony wonders. “Why do you scorn Revisionists?”

Queen Maria has a very expressive face, Tony knows. The question isn’t new, and he’s expecting the darkness that draws her mouth into a scowl and her eyes into a glare. But this time, he really looks. This time, he wants to understand, because all he can imagine is that same disdain mixed with grief and turned on a future Stephen. 

“You know it’s complicated,” Maria sighs. “But what they do…it’s unnatural. The flow of time is something so universal, so  _ sacred  _ that humans cannot even begin to quantify it. It’s an axiom. And they tamper with it, leaving entire histories at their mercy. Leaving  _ us  _ at their mercy. We have no control, because we don’t even  _ remember.”  _

“So, then, does it matter?” Tony turns over so he can look at his mother more comfortably. She knows he’s in discussion mode, now, and so she turns sideways to face him as well. 

“What do you mean?”

“If we’d never know if they interfered or not—unless they told us, of course—does it even matter that they have the power to do so? It doesn’t impact us negatively, and it doesn’t affect the way we carry out our lives.”

“Of course it matters,” Maria says. “Because it’s  _ our lives.  _ They have control, have subjective and failable judgement over everything that has, is, and will ever happen to us. A Revisionist faces no consequences, because no one remembers enough to even know what’s been done to them.”

A few servants edge closer, listening in. The Queen and the Crown Prince discussing politics in the throne room is one of the best entertainments in the castle. 

Tony hums. “So you want an objective constancy to your own memories.”

“I do. I, as a human being,  _ deserve  _ that constancy. I should be able to trust my own mind.”

“Because being unable to is the definition of insanity.”

“Right,” Maria says. “Time used to be a tool in our arsenal, but it’s one I find too cruel to use. Just because we  _ can  _ massacre a nation for our own gain doesn’t mean we’re justified in doing so.”

Tony frowns. “That’s a pretty intense comparison, Mom.”

“It’s accurate.”

“Mass murder is just as immoral as a change of history no one will even remember?”

“Yes,” Maria says. “If not more so. At least the former lets people keep the integrity of their own souls.”

“The Order has rules. They hold themselves to a standard to assure their revisions are for the greater good.”

“It doesn’t matter. The ends don’t always justify the means. And besides, we have no way of verifying they stick to those rules.” Passionate, Maria gesticulates as she talks—a habit Tony knows he reflects. “And taking it on trust is not something we can afford to do with such a dangerous power. Avelshi would never allow the Thunder Prince into the strongrooms without an escort. Your father would never turn a blind eye on the Hyedrans just because their king gave an unfounded promise.”

Tony borrows Stephen’s words. “You talk about the Order as if it’s a political structure. The ways of the Revisionists could be considered a culture, couldn’t they? A culture we don’t understand everything about.”

“They’re not a culture.”

“Why not?” Tony leans forward, resting his chin on crossed arms. “They have their own customs, their own achievements, their own tools, their own cuisine and art and society. Their own history.” 

“Their members are born from normal families, regardless of location,” Maria argues. 

“A Revisionist isn’t a Revisionist until they’re taken in by the Order. I’d be an Asgardian if I were taken in by Odin.”

“But you wouldn’t be a Revisionist if you were raised by the Order.”

“Because I don’t have an Eye.”

“Yes. And a Revisionist wouldn’t be an Avelshian even if they were raised away from the Order.”

Tony’s brows furrow. “That sounds unfounded. You say it like the Eye is the only thing that defines them.”

“Isn’t it, in terms of our relationship with time?”

Tony shrugs. “I can’t imagine that it is.”

“It’s the thing that sets them apart. The magic that allows them to act in immoral ways."

"But only because it is the obvious center of Revisionist culture," Tony says. 

"Why is it relevant if they're a separate culture or not?" Maria asks, genuinely curious.

"Because it requires us to judge them with more openness. If your reasons for scorning the Order are philosophical, then we must also consider the philosophy of differing morals between differing groups. There are many who say ethics are subjective, especially in the context of alien cultures."

Maria stares at him. Then she chuckles, breaking into a slight smile. "Howard's raised a ruthless politician," she says.

Tony smirks. "Damn right."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." There follows a short pause, during which Maria's smile falls away. "My reasons aren't only philosophical," she says.

Tony cocks his head. "Oh?" 

"In honesty, I'm afraid of them and what they could and might already have done to those I care about. I'm angry, too. I'm furious that I can't feel like my mind is my own." The queen shakes her head with a sigh. "Every one of my decisions could be manipulated by a Revisionist at any given moment. I know your father’s are, and I—"

_ What? _

"The king's decisions?" Tony straightens. "What do you mean?"

Maria's eyes flicker. She's said something she didn't intend to; Tony can see it in every inch of her stance.

"Mom," Tony says softly. "What do you mean?"

Maria closes her eyes. "That prophecy. That  _ damned  _ prophecy." 

Tony feels himself go still. "What?"

"I can't tell you."

_ "Mom." _

Maria meets his eyes with all the sudden force of an attacking army. "I can't tell you, Tony. You'll know, someday—or maybe you won't. Maybe this entire conversation will be revised out of our memories for good, with none of us the wiser. But I can't tell you."

Tony opens his mouth to object, to  _ demand _ , but Maria cuts him off. 

"If you can't trust me as your queen," she says, "trust me as your mother."

Tony's words choke into smog, and he swallows mutely. His mother's earnestness is sad—so sad. He wants anything but that.

"Okay," he manages. "Okay."

His mother sits back, closing her eyes. When she opens them, she's Queen Maria once again, and she folds her hands in her lap and looks out over the preparations. 

"You make good points," she says. "You should bring them up to the court, the next time you’re in session with them.”

“Sure,” Tony replies. His voice falls flat.

Maria still smiles. “Go get ready,” she says. “You have a party to give life to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a complicated concept isn't it?
> 
> What's the king up to... 
> 
> I just want you to be aware of the amount of pure unbridled joy talking about these kinds of cultural consequences gives me. I hope you enjoyed this chap as much as I did!


	4. The Second Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter four!!! Get ready for like, 7k of cultural discussion, politics, our favorite spider-kid, and a further exploration of Loki's history. Oh and also flirting. So much flirting. 
> 
> The number of times I spelled "prophecies" wrong in this chapter is apparently uncanny. Everybody thank my beta (multi-fandom-disaster-deactivated) once again! All mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Stephen slips into the great hall on the back of a wave of smartly-dressed servants. His new robes flow and move in ways he isn’t used to, but he draws fewer looks from the crowds of nobles. Stephen therefore allows himself to be grateful for the outfit. 

He takes his place in the shadow of the stairwell and wonders if he should even be here. He’d spent the day tailing Celebration guests from their quarters and listening in on servant’s gossip, and it’s gotten him a slew of information to sort through. He’s learned names, faces, and voices as best he can. Dozens of people have safely shown themselves to be of no suspicion to his mission, and Stephen wonders what point there is of actually attending the gathering. His productivity could be best cultured elsewhere. 

But he’s hungry, and he’s restless, and would be cruel not to at least  _ try  _ to update Tony on matters relating to his own assassination.

And maybe Stephen wonders if the prince might be looking for him. 

Stephen watches his surroundings with focused eyes, drawing on the things he can see without magic. He’s getting used to it now. Memory may have left him clumsy, but Stephen is nothing if not adaptable. There’s quite a bit the human senses can pick up; losing one doesn’t mean Stephen is without resources. 

So he watches, and he listens, and he remembers what he’s learned of this world he’s stepped into. The second night of the Dynasty Celebration is even busier than the first. Where there were polite invitations yesterday, there is dancing today, and where there were individual orbits before, there are now groups of nobles maintaining connections. Stephen wonders if they calculate how long they should spend with each contact before moving on to pursue new ones. He wonders if they move on together, like dolphins in a growing pod. 

He recognizes more servants than he does guests. Still, he isn’t as lost tonight, settled firmly into this timeline and having spent a day identifying as much as he could. Stephen can pick out the Asgardian entourage in the throng. Many of them stick around near the wide doors to the throne room, and Stephen assumes their princes are beyond. 

He thinks the blue-robed man with the gathered listeners is Steve Rogers, one of the court members. And the laughing woman in the purple and blue must be Christine Palmer. Stephen had seen her speaking to the staffmaster earlier in the day, and that was the name Potts had used. At the top of the stairway, Stephen can see the knight that led him to the king days from now—he still remembers the soul he’d identified as James Rhodes.

There are others, and Stephen repeats their names to himself, cementing their faces in his memory. He will not allow himself to be handicapped here. He refuses to let what should be his strength become a weakness. 

The music changes to a new beat and the guests swirl in eddies like a river, and Stephen isn’t looking for signs anymore. He doesn’t remember when he stopped. Instead, his eyes skim the edges of the room for charcoal eyes and an angular jaw above the elegant cut of garnet robes. They snag on every group larger than three people.

There are so many bodies, and Stephen knows only luck would let him pick out anyone specific. He loses track of even those he’s already identified in the movements of the dancers and the stirring of the party. Someone tries to talk to him, probably thinking he’s someone important. The look of utter disinterest Stephen can’t help but display sends them running. 

Stephen plays with the embroidered hem of the cuffs that half-cover his hands. They’re silver and soft. He’s pretty sure he’s supposed to roll them up, but his cold-dwelling mind hadn’t even considered doing so until the observation was too late.

He shouldn’t be here. It’s loud and fascinating and fun, but he’s not here to enjoy himself. He shouldn’t. He’s not finding anything, there’s no point—

“Still lurking in stairwells, are we?”

Stephen turns, and Tony Stark has materialized beside him, a semicircle of nobles pretending not to be tailing the prince’s every step. Tony’s in red again, but it’s a lighter shade, and the black has been softened to bronze. The Stark crest is embroidered on one of his shoulders. A sword has replaced the knife on his belt. Stephen wonders if it’s authentic, or simply decorative. 

“It’s my specialty,” Stephen says. His shoulders relax. 

The prince doesn’t reply; he’s looking Stephen up and down in a lingering sort of observance. When he meets Stephen’s eyes, he quirks an eyebrow and grins insouciantly. “You met Pepper, then?”

Stephen frowns. “Is that obvious?”

“Only one person makes clothes like that. She sure knows what she’s doing with the navy.” Tony clears his throat. “Anyway. You do know you’re supposed to roll the sleeves up?”

“Perhaps I’m setting a trend.”

“Damn right you are.” The prince surveys him again. “Note to self, thank Pepper  _ profusely.”  _

“She, ah, knows,” Stephen says. 

“About the murder thing?”

Stephen snorts, tucking his hands behind his back. “Yes, about the  _ murder thing.” _

“She threatened you, didn’t she?”

Stephen nods.

Tony rocks back on his heels with a grin. “Yeah, she does that. Think the king’s the scariest person in this castle? Think again.”

“Is His Majesty here?” Stephen asks. The scrap of folded paper that the king and queen had signed is still tucked into his robes, transferred from the pockets of his Revisionist coat. 

“Yeah, it’s customary that they stick to the throne room for gatherings like this.” Tony jerks his chin, stepping back. “Have you been in there yet?”

“Not tonight,” Stephen says, because he isn’t exactly sure what the prince means. 

“Blasphemy,” Tony informs him. “Come on.”

With that, he goes striding back through the crowd. The guests fold in around him like the surface of a lake closing around a thrown pebble, and Stephen has no time to do anything but leap after him lest he lose Tony to the nobles. He bounds quickly along the edge of the room, noting openings and taking them until he can match his gait to Tony’s. 

Where Stephen had to fight for his movement, Tony just walks—even the decorations get out of his way. He flashes his smile at everyone they pass as though it’s somehow inconsequential. Stephen feels irrationally like collecting the moments that grin is offered to him and preserving them. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be…” Stephen gestures vaguely. “Doing prince things?”

“Who says I’m not doing them now?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I already did my rounds,” Tony says dismissively. “Less than I probably should have, but even the crown prince gets to have a little fun now and then.”

“You’ve decided preemptively solving your own murder is fun?”

“No, I have decided talking to you is fun.”

“A horrible decision.”

“ _ You  _ didn’t have to spend the last hour talking about the Toomes land holdings near the border,” Tony says, pointing a finger at him. “So y’know. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“You’re  _ Crown Prince of Avelshi,”  _ Stephen snorts.

“I’m a social beggar.”

“No you’re not.”

Tony laughs. “Okay, fair. Maybe I just like making bad decisions.”

_ “That  _ I can believe.”

They pass through the double doors, stepping into the throne room, and Stephen notices the eyes carved beneath the door handles. They’re intricate and abstract. The pattern reminds Stephen of Wong’s Eye, though they lack the sunburst hidden in the iris that Stephen once hid a twinge of jealousy for. 

There are eyes worked into the designs on the throne room’s pillars too. Single wide images, never in pairs, each slightly unique. It’s impressive—and it must be old, for the renderings, styles, and placements indicate a knowledge of the Order’s customs. Stephen makes a point to be absurdly easily offended, but even he feels a warmth at the respect that’s written into the walls here.

Tony doesn’t stop, so neither does Stephen. They make their way around the edge of the room toward the group of musicians that play skillfully for the dancers in this hall. There are considerably less people here. Most of them are standing and talking, or offering greetings to the dais near the back of the long room. 

The king and queen look far different now than they did, or will, when Stephen last saw them. Their expressions are light, their words are easy, and they sit with confidence. Each wears beautiful arrays of fabric and jewelry, and Stephen’s sure the brightness of the clothes will match the colors of their energies. No grief lingers here. Stephen steals a glance at the prince at his side and is grateful.

There’s another figure on the dais—not sitting, but standing near enough to the royalty that Stephen takes note of him. Tall and grey, the man has a smile Stephen can’t read. He speaks for the king on occasion, and Stephen watches the interactions with interest. 

“Who’s that?” he asks when he remembers who’s standing beside him. 

“That?” Tony follows his gaze. “Oh, that’s Obie. Obediah Stane, my father’s advisor.”

Stephen squints a little more. The man feels familiar, but he knows he’s never seen his energies—Stane was absent from the throne room Stephen had visited in the future. 

“I’ve seen him before,” Stephen says. Not where he should have, however… 

“Yeah, he was in the library last night.” 

“Hm.”

“And he would have taken my duties in the future. If I was dead, I mean,” Tony says, lifting a hand in a wave. “He’s the only one we’d trust to do so.”

Stane’s gaze follows the movement, and he waves back. His expression doesn’t change, and all of a sudden Stephen is  _ itching  _ to open his Eye, itching for confirmation, information. His own eyes narrow. Stane looks at him, and suspicion trickles down Stephen’s spine even as the advisor’s eyes continue on dismissively. 

Tony disappears from his peripheral vision, and Stephen stops watching Stane to try and keep track of him. A few steps away, Tony has swiped two drinks and is already holding one out to Stephen. The cups are identical to what Stephen had seen the night before. The liquid inside, however, is a different color, and Stephen catches the edge of a smell that’s stronger than before. 

He works his sleeve up over his wrist and reaches out. Concentrating, he manages to take the glass with shaking fingers curled into the formation the prince had shown him. A splash of drink escapes the wobbling brim, gleaming wetly on his scars. 

Stephen stabilizes the bottom of the glass on his other hand. He peers at the sweet liquid, then raises an eyebrow in Tony’s direction. 

“You don’t actually have to drink it,” Tony tells him. “You just have to hold it.” 

“Why?”

Tony shrugs. “It extends the time we’re allowed to politely converse without increasing the size of our group, moving on, or offering a dance.”

“So many  _ rules. _ ” Stephen huffs and takes an experimental sip of the liquid. His empty stomach is disappointed to find the drink is nothing substantial, and it makes itself known. 

“You’re used to rules,” Tony says. He watches Stephen analyze the glass with amusement written across his face. “Is it so different from what you’re used to?”

Stephen shrugs as best he can without spilling more alcohol. “I assume this is wine. Which we have, just… not like this. This is sweeter than anything I’ve tasted in the mountains. Lighter, too.”

“This is supposed to be pretty bitter,” Tony says. “Less honey, more cloves.”

“What?”

Tony looks at him. “Spices, y’know. Relative to other wines, it’s bitter.”

“Huh.” Stephen takes another sip. “I wonder what the sweet ones taste like, then, because this is borderline saccharine.”

“What do you use in the far reaches?”

“Well, our water is quite pure, so usually we steep tea. Any variation you find in beverages comes from the different herbs used, and anything alcoholic is rare. The process is more expensive than tea making. And tea is important to a number of Order practices—medicinal, sometimes, to the side effects of Revision.”

Tony cocks his head. “There are side effects to magic?”

Nodding, Stephen explains, “they’re more common in novices, but any extended exposure to timeline changes can result in them.” 

“What sorts of issues?”

Stephen considers how much to say. “There’s a difference between simply looking through one’s Eye and using it to twist time. The former is as natural as breathing for us. It’s just another sense.”

“Right.”

“Time travel, however, is an action, an undertaking,” Stephen says. “Performing a number of rapid jumps can be draining and painful. Performing a particularly long jump can be disorienting.”

“And the tea helps?”

“Well, yeah.” Stephen shrugs. “When you grow up with a familiar taste, it grounds you in your own timeline when everything feels like it’s shattering around you.”

Tony nods, nursing at his drink. “I didn’t think Revisionists could get lost.”

“Not lost, just…” Stephen searches for a word that fails to convey the feeling he remembers. “I mean, every jump is the act of entering a whole other world, and the act of Revision is destroying the world you came from. The untrained can be affected by that.” 

“Makes sense,” Tony says. There’s an interest in his eyes, and Stephen can’t pretend he’s only answering the questions because they’re a crown prince’s. Stephen isn’t speaking from duty. 

_ ‘I’ve decided talking to you is fun.’ _

“Why do you do it?” Tony asks.

Stephen frowns. “Do what?”

“Revise at all. Use your Eyes for time travel in the first place. It’s something they’re capable of, but you said it wasn’t their true purpose—”

Stephen cuts off. “First off, our Eyes are part of us. Time travel isn’t something my Eye is capable of; it’s something  _ I’m  _ capable of.”

Tony nods. “Alright. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s a common mistake.” Stephen concentrates on the drink in his fingers and viciously ignores the silent itch to hide his hands. “Secondly, if Revisionists didn’t use our Eyes to time travel, none of this would be here right now.”

“I know, but—”

“No, you don’t.” 

Stephen has had this conversation before, many times, and he’s usually fuming. But there’s nothing accusatory in Tony’s words, only interest. Genuine interest. It’s refreshing. No defensiveness sharpens Stephen’s words, and he lets himself debate from a place of academia, for once. 

“Everyone has been told that Revisionists are supposed to save lives,” Stephen says, “but very few actually truly believe or accept it. I wouldn’t expect them to. It would be idiotic to blindly agree with a fact you can’t see for yourself; you live in the world we save, but you don’t remember it was ever in danger.”

“It sounds more like a fairytale than history,” Tony agrees.

“Right, exactly. You want proof, and we can’t give it to you,” Stephen says. “I can’t even prove that you’ve actually died in the future.”

“The most concrete things the Order gives are the prophecies.” Tony gestures toward the king and queen with the hand holding his half-empty drink. “And even those are vague as hell.”

“This is true,” Stephen nods. 

“But?” Tony prompts.

Stephen lets his eyes flicker closed. “But I have lived in worlds where war has raised this kingdom to the ground. I have lived in timelines where disease has decimated entire cultures. I have experienced days in starving villages after fires grew out of control. I have undone the losses of critical inventions. I have brought scientific knowledge of years in the future back to desperate scholars racing against cataclysm. I can prove none of this.

“It’s easy to debate if doing so is moral, or necessary. It’s easy to ask  _ ‘if it wouldn’t happen without meddling, should it happen at all?’  _ It’s easy, until you’re staring down a massacre you could have prevented or begging a Revisionist to give you a hint, any clue, to get through the dark times your world is facing.”

Stephen opens his eyes, shooting the prince a grin. “Or ordering them to undo the death of your son.”

The prince is watching him, and when Stephen looks at him, he looks away. His eyes find the queen over the heads of the dancers. Tony hums. “My mother thinks changing the timeline is unnatural.”

“I disagree. And I think the opinion is one of the few complaints about the Order that is completely unjustified and highly dehumanizing.”

Tony looks almost amused by his vehemence. “Oh?”

“I am not unnatural,” Stephen says, and his voice is frigid. “I am not abhorrent. I am a human being. I am different from you, true, but why should that mean I’m unnatural? Why does the mere fact that I have a skill you don’t also possess make me a monster?”

“You’re not a monster.”

Stephen’s scars itch. “You’d be surprised by the number of people who think differently. I certainly was.”

Tony’s mouth draws together into a thin line. His eyes fall to the shaking of Stephen’s hands, and Stephen gives into the urge to tuck them away. He sets the drink down on the nearest surface. There’s a tension crackling around him, he knows, and he takes a breath to school it away. Now is not the time for righteousness; the Ancient One taught him better than this. 

The mission. Focus.

“Anyway,” he says. “It’s an intriguing phenomenon.” 

Tony snorts, and Stephen watches him reorder opinions and questions and understandings internally for a long second. Then the prince says, “damn, if you and my mother ever end up talking, I’m selling tickets.”

That pulls a laugh out of Stephen. “I should get half the profit.”

“Yeah, you can use it to buy some decent wine.”

“I wouldn’t know a decent wine if it smacked me in the face,” Stephen says. 

“I’ll have to show you, then.”

Stephen looks at him, raising both eyebrows. “You wouldn’t last two days in the mountains.”

“Is that a challenge, Stephen Strange?”

“Absolutely,” Stephen purrs.

Tony grins. “I think I’ll make proving you wrong a habit of mine.”

{(●)}

Tony has decided that right before he stabs his would-be murderer through the heart, he’s going to thank them generously. Whoever twisted fate enough to bring him in contact with the unsolvable puzzle that is this Revisionist deserves a pat on the back. 

And then they deserve death, obviously, because Tony’s adverse to being assassinated, but the point still stands. 

The ethics of time travel has never quite gripped Tony before now. It’s hard to get invested in something you only half believe in, something that Stephen described accurately as providing no proof for its side of the argument. But taken from an issue of mechanics to an issue of  _ people,  _ an issue of humanity… 

Well, Tony certainly has something to bring up to the court. 

He knows what his mother would say, but he finds himself wondering what stance Howard would take. He wonders  _ why _ . His mother had mentioned the prophecies—the prophecies no one has seen, and the influence the Order apparently wrought on the king. Tony knows nothing under the sun can blackmail Howard, so the king must have made a choice. A choice Maria doesn’t agree with, even now. 

Tony is no stranger to secrets. But he can’t shake the feeling that something is being kept from him in particular, something important.

_ The prophecies are of Order origin _ , he thinks. He considers asking Stephen what he knows of the most recent prophecies, but the words strangle themselves before he even tries to form them. These are undeniably state secrets. Tony is curious, but he is also the crown prince; he has his responsibilities. 

Shaking his thoughts free of their spiral, Tony looks to his left. Stephen is watching the dancers again with the same sort of involved fascination that he turned on the library books the night before. Tony distracts himself watching the sorcerer in turn. Stephen looks taller in the navy, Avelshi-style robes, and the silver around his cuffs and neck draws attention to the grey in his hair. Tony couldn’t possibly be more blatant, he doesn’t think, but Stephen is deliciously oblivious. Smirking, Tony doesn’t look away when Stephen’s gaze slides to him. 

“What?” the Revisionist asks. 

“Oh, nothing,” Tony says. “What are your opinions on dancing as of tonight?” 

“I thought we were providing you with interesting conversation topics.”

“No, we’re providing me with a little  _ fun.  _ Which can, quite possibly, involve dancing.”

Stephen chuckles. “I had all of two sausages today. Don’t ask me to embarrass myself on an empty stomach.”

Tony presses a hand to his chest in mock horror. “You’ve been going hungry? Surrounded by all this lavishness? We can’t have that!”

He takes a sweep of the room, eyes alighting on the closest refreshment table, and he leaps into motion without warning. Stephen jumps, starting after him with the same hurriedness he’d employed before. Tony hides a smile. He enjoys watching the wizard scurry. 

People step respectfully out of his way, and Tony bids them nods. He doesn’t miss the way their eyes track Stephen, calculating. He doesn’t think too much of it; watching Stephen hold his own against a swarm of bloodthirsty lower nobles would be a sight to behold anyway. Long strides quickly bring Stephen to his side. Tony leads him toward the smell of bread, already anticipating the satisfying taste of cheese.

“Okay, mountain man,” Tony says, stopping before the table. “This is how we feast in civilized lands.”

Stephen looks unimpressed. “With tiny portions and too-sweet beverages?” 

“Oh, just you  _ wait _ .” 

Tony picks out a fork and an assortment of fruits, pastries, cuts of meat, and slices of cheese. He gathers them in an unruly heap on a dish and hands it to Stephen with a grin. Squinting, Stephen takes it slowly.

“I’m suspicious,” he says suspiciously. 

Tony rolls his eyes. “You’re always suspicious.” 

Stephen gripes for a moment more, but Tony doesn’t respond. He just grins and gestures to the plate, stubbornly waiting until Stephen sighs long-sufferingly and turns his attention to the food. He ignores the fork. Tony’s about to make a joke about the manners of silverware use in the far reaches when he abruptly remembers Stephen steadying the bottom of his wine glass between shaking hands so it wouldn’t spill. 

That’s another thing he’s curious about. Stephen’s scars don’t exactly imply a good story, and Tony’s beginning to form a theory. He hopes he’s wrong. 

Stephen wraps a bit of cheese in a strip of meat and chews the whole thing at once. His eyes go wide.

“Holy shit,” he says. “That’s delicious.”

Tony grins. “Try the blueberries.”

Stephen does; his eyes flicker closed what looks like involuntarily, and Tony laughs outright. He leaves Stephen to it, picking at the food himself. He knows how to balance a single-handed plate, and he foregoes the fork as well—simply because Nobleman Ross was giving Stephen a disapproving look on the other side of the table. 

“You know,” he says, “the edges of these—”

He’s interrupted by an excited voice bounding into his presence with all the dexterity of a rabbit. “Your Highness! There you are!”

Tony smiles instinctually. He looks up, leaving his plate on the table for the moment as he seeks Peter Parker out. “Kid!” he replies with just as much energy. 

Peter is straightening from a bow, his embroidered family sash hanging in front of his chest. Red and ivory robes show off his stature and indicate his youth. He’s wearing his dagger, half hidden and almost casual, and it gives him an air of confidence. Behind the kid, Prince Loki of Asgard inclines his head in acknowledgement of Tony. His constant expression of disinterest is still solidly in place, but the frosty edges of his demeanor have thawed in Peter’s presence. Tony grins pointedly at Loki. 

Then there’s another frigid presence in his vision. Stephen has edged in front of him, almost defensively, his weight in the balls of his feet. The sorcerer’s left hand is twitching up toward his chest. There’s something hostile in the movement, like a swordsman reaching for the hilt of their weapon. 

“You’re a Revisionist,” Stephen says. His voice rings with warning.

It takes Tony a moment to realize what he means. “Oh, no. No, this is the Frost Prince of Asgard.”   
He steps out from behind Stephen, and he bows respectfully to Loki. The Asgardian doesn’t even acknowledge him. Watching Stephen, Loki exaggeratedly lifts a hand to the medallion he wears around his neck. Stephen tenses. 

“Loki, don’t terrorize the guests,” Peter says with a laugh. To Stephen, he adds, “hi! I’m Peter Parker.”

Stephen’s gaze flickers between Loki and Peter, a crinkle growing between his brows. Tony steps in. “Loki, Peter, this is Stephen Strange. He’s, ah, from the university.”

“Nice to meet you!” Peter chirps. 

Stephen is still watching Loki, and the reason for his tension finally clicks with Tony. He suspects Loki is a rogue Revisionist, perhaps even the murderer he’s looking for, and he’s preparing to fight if necessary. 

“Stephen,” Tony says. “It’s fine. He’s not a Revisionist. He has an Eye, which is unheard of for Asgard, but he  _ is  _ Asgardian. He’s not from the Order.”

Stephen looks at him, looks back at Peter, then finally settles gaze on Loki and relaxes. He drops his hand from his chest, instead raising it slightly in front of him with the palm facing inward and the fingers half curled. The gesture is purposeful. Stephen inclines his head to Loki and says, “my apologies. I meant no offense.”

Loki blinks; it’s all the surprise he’ll ever show. To Tony’s confusion, he repeats Stephen’s gesture—and to Tony’s utter shock, he actually bows his head to Stephen as well. 

“None was taken,” the Frost Prince says. Stephen nods, and they both lower their hands to their sides as one.

Tony and Peter share a look. Peter shrugs, obviously just as lost.

Loudly, Tony asks, “okay, what just happened?”

Loki looks at him, drawling, “this man is more respectful than the entirety of your kingdom. You would do well to listen to him.”

Stephen smirks, looking far too satisfied with himself for Tony’s comfort. 

For backup, Tony edges closer to Peter. Loudly, he whispers, “they’re ganging up on us. What should we do?”

Peter elbows him, taking his movement as an invitation to break formality. “Secede to their side, obviously.”

“Gasp! Treason!”

“Do you even know how treason works?” says Stephen.

“Yes, actually. And maybe I couldn’t arrest you for that, but I’m sure I could come up with something.”

Stephen snorts, lifting his plate back off the table. “Please don’t,” he says. “Getting arrested is so  _ inconvenient.” _

Loki hums. “I agree.”

Peter looks at Tony, wide-eyed. “They’re ganging up on us. What should we do?”

Tony laughs, and Peter laughs too, breaking his frightened act. He makes his way over to the refreshments, popping a slice of cheese into his mouth. Tony snorts. 

“Use a fork, kid.”

Peter looks him right in the eye and swipes a cut of strawberry with his fingers.

“I’m being disrespected,” Tony announces. 

“You, you’re the noble’s heir,” Stephen says, pointing a shaking finger at Peter. 

The boy snaps to attention instantly, and he bows lightly in the manner reserved for strangers with unknown titles. He tucks one ankle behind the other as he straightens as he always does. “That’s me, sir.”

Stephen winces. “That’s, ah, not necessary.”

“No title for Stephen,” Tony says with a grin, clapping the Revisionist on the shoulder.

“Are you a student, then?” Peter asks, and Tony remembers who he’d introduced Stephen as.

“Yeah,” Stephen says easily. “I’m studying Revisionist history.”

“That’s cool!” Peter sounds eager, and he dances closer. “Why’d you end up here for the Celebration?”

“My professor sponsored me. Well, forgot about her invitation until last-minute and gave it to me for damage control.” He bites into one of the small pastries and shrugs. 

Tony’s sickeningly impressed with how smoothly he can lie. 

“I would’ve thought you a high court name to be entitled to the crown prince’s presence,” Loki drawls.

“Loki,” Peter hushes. “Don’t be rude.”

“It’s fine.” Stephen grins. “I’ve been accosted by your royalty, here; this is entirely his fault. His Highness likes me. He thinks I’m  _ fun,  _ for some reason.”

Peter gives Tony a  _ look.  _ Tony feels his face heat, and he quickly fills his mouth with food as an excuse not to speak. 

“Why are the Asgardians attending the Celebration?” Stephen asks, changing the subject. 

Loki waves a hand. “Politics. We shall remain here a few weeks longer for trade negotiations and semantics.”

“Oh.” Stephen’s eyes flicker with something like realization. “So it was you in the throne room with the kid before.”

“What?” Tony cocks his head.

“Nothing.” Stephen winks, and he has absolutely  _ no right.  _

Peter gives Tony another look. 

_ Shut up.  _ Tony eats another handful of berries. 

“So you study history and magic?” Peter asks. “I know the basics of the Revisionist influences from school, but I’m sure there’s tons of cool customs and rules and patterns.”

“Enough I could spend my life with them,” Stephen agrees. “Tony’s told me about you; he says you’re going to help run his kingdom.”

Peter practically preens. “Well, someday. I hope!”

“I  _ know,”  _ Tony chimes in. “You’re going to be great.”

“He’s already great,” Loki huffs, sounding offended.

“Stop, you guys are supposed to be professionals,” Peter grumbles, but he’s grinning. 

“Who told you that?” Tony says.

Loki nods. “We must eliminate such lies.”

“And here I thought this kingdom was already going to pieces…” Stephen chuckles, tossing a blueberry toward Peter. The kid bounces onto his toes and snatches it out of the air. To Loki, Stephen adds, “I’m not familiar with the customs of Asgard. Why not wear your Eye?”

Loki lifts his hand to the amulet at his neck and bares his teeth in a grin. “My brother forbid it.”

“He likes to intimidate people,” Peter explains, punching Loki in the shoulder.

“But if you would only ask…” Loki purrs, his fingers spiraling across the surface of his amulet.

Amused, Tony takes a step back to watch this from the sidelines. Stephen’s own hand has come up to grip at the front of his shirt, his fingers curling and uncurling similarly to Loki’s. It could easily be mistaken for Stephen copying the Asgardian, but Tony can see the subtle shift of Stephen’s own necklace beneath the fabric around his neck. 

“Be my guest,” Stephen replies. 

“Oh no,” Peter mutters. He steps up beside Tony, looking up at him. Tony shrugs and mouths  _ ‘sorry’. _

If the Frost Prince causes mass panic, at least it won’t be his fault this time. 

Loki’s fingers snap tight around the amulet. Tony sees the chain digging into the Asgardian’s palm, turning the white skin red. Eyes closing, Loki lets out a breath, and it seems to trickle through his entire form.

Then a mark slashes across the back of Loki’s hand. It’s like a shadow crossing in front of a window, a beautiful, intense shade of blue. Another mark follows; darker. Then a third, a pure black loop narrowing near Loki’s wrist. Tony can’t look away as the Eye opens along Loki’s hand, a pattern of sharp and dangerous crescent moons. It’s an otherworldly blue hue. Even metaphors fall short of the prismatic shade. 

“Wow,” Tony hears himself say. 

He’s heard of the Frost Prince’s Eye before, seen portraits and descriptions. They don’t compare.

“A powerful signature,” Stephen says.

Loki raises his hand and covers his left eye. The optical illusion entirely rewrites Loki’s face. His new striking blue gaze falls on Stephen, and Loki’s grin goes from dangerous to straight-up lethal. His blue Eye narrows.

Stephen doesn’t so much as flinch. “You’ve never jumped,” he observes.

“No. I would not know how.” Loki says the words without shame.

Around them, nobles flinch back and servants widen their berths. Loki revels in it, and Peter rolls his eyes. 

Stephen looks almost envious as Loki blinks through his sorcerer’s vision, and Tony wonders what pattern Stephen’s Eye takes. He wonders if its color would be as bold, its pattern as specific. For some reason, Tony imagines it bronze and blue and a deep, soul-reflecting emerald. 

Loki’s Eye blinks, and he looks at Tony with one eye narrowed and the impossible blue one reading him like a book. Tony shifts uncomfortably. Loki, of course, can see it. The Frost Prince’s sharp face spreads in a smirk. 

“Please don’t ruin any court relations this time,” Peter groans, saving Tony for the moment. 

Stephen snorts. He’s still peering at Loki, but he gives Peter a glance and a grin. “That sounds like a good story.”

“It absolutely is  _ not,”  _ Tony yelps. “It was a  _ nightmare.  _ I was dealing with the fallout for months.”

“Alright, alright…” Loki sighs and pulls his hand away from his face. Instantly, Stephen’s hands flutter in a complicated gesture, and he closes both of his own eyes. Loki stares at him, hand frozen in the air, for a long second. 

Then he  _ whistles _ . “You have studied,” Loki says appreciatively. 

“They’re talking in code? They’re talking in code.” Tony gives Peter a helpless look. 

“And you’re being remarkably disrespectful,” Stephen replies, eyes still closed.

He doesn’t open them again until Loki’s hand has closed around his amulet and the beautiful, crescent-moon slashes have faded from the back of his hand. It’s like he can somehow tell when Loki’s eye has closed. Maybe he can, for all Tony knows. 

“What was that?” Peter asks curiously. He fumblingly tries to replicate Stephen’s gesture, and both Loki and Stephen wince. 

“No, like this,” Loki allows. He shows Peter the movements, slowly, with a patience Tony has only ever seen him employ in front of the boy.  _ For  _ the boy. 

Everyone in the room knows that a brother-in-arms bond ties Avelshi to Asgard, and has saved the peace and their lives more than once. It’s at moments like these that Tony’s reminded of it. He smiles, watching Peter stick his tongue out in concentration for a moment. Then he focuses on Loki’s movements and tries to recreate them himself. 

He remembers the strange bow Stephen had given Loki after they’d been introduced. Committing it to memory, he decides he truly needs to speak to the court. 

Maybe even to the king. Maybe he can find the courage for that. 

_ ‘That prophecy. That damned prophecy.’ _

Tony shakes his mother’s words out of his ears and looks around him. Peter and Loki have migrated back toward the refreshment table, and Stephen has resumed his chewing with single-minded intensity. 

“Damn,” Tony says. “What did that blueberry ever do to you?”

Stephen glances over at him. “It’s… how is it such a perfect sphere? No natural matter has a right to be this aesthetically perfect. It has offended me personally.”

“Oh? Are pretty things such a slight?”

Stephen looks at him, gaze slipping down his form cooly. A tingle ratchets up Tony’s spine. “Yes,” Stephen says, almost hesitantly. 

Tony grins. 

He opens his mouth to say something he’ll regret later when Peter’s voice pipes up. “So, Tony, do you still have training this week, or are you let off for the Celebration?”

Stephen’s gaze turns curious. “Training?”

Tony pats the sword at his hip. “What, you think this is just for show? A king has got to know his way around war in more ways than one—so he knows to hold it at bay.”

“Hm.” Stephen swipes his near-empty wine glass from the table and takes a sip. 

“And yes, Pete, I have the day off. But Rhodey will always spar with me if I feel like it, or if I don’t feel like it, so it’s not like I’ll get rusty.”

“Do you ever get rusty?”

Tony grinned.  _ “That  _ is a rhetorical question.”

All three of the surrounding individuals roll their eyes. Tony grins wider. 

“Where’s your brother?” Tony wonders, looking at Loki.

The Frost Prince makes a face of distaste. “You believe I keep track of him?”

Tony shrugs and points at Peter. “You keep track of this one, don’t you?”

“That is because he insists on keeping track of  _ you,  _ and you are always flanked by half the hungry eyes and protective guards in the castle,” Loki replies. 

“What can I say, I’m an interesting guy.”

“His Grace is dancing,” Peter says, raising his hand eagerly. “I think in the courtyard. That’s where I last saw him.”

Someday, Tony was going to get to the bottom of Peter’s uncanny observation skills. The boy just paid attention. It made Tony jealous. 

“The courtyard, huh?” Tony perks up, looking over his shoulder at Stephen. “Have you been into the courtyard yet?”

“Me? No,” Stephen says. He passes the wine glass between his hands. 

“It’s the best place to dance. Good music, not too crowded, fresh air.” Tony lets his hands gesticulate as he speaks, a habit he could usually control after the king’s order. But the idea of drawing this silver-streaked Revisionist out into the starlight is somehow exactly what he wants, and he lets his hands fly alongside his earnestness. 

Stephen gives the dancers in the throne room another glance, studying them for a brief moment. “I’m supposed to be working,” he says.

Tony laughs. “Yeah, and you haven’t been for about three hours now. Take one more.”

Peter and Loki are already moving toward the far exit to the courtyard, the crowd of nobles closing around them. They’ll wait if Tony and Stephen fall too far behind. Tony takes a step in their direction, then looks back and jerks his chin.

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know how to dance,” Stephen admits.

Tony grins, holding out his hand. “I’ll teach you,” he promises. 

“I…” Stephen looks like he’s moving to step forward, to take Tony’s arm—until he stops, and his eyes fall to the crest of Stark embroidered on Tony’s shoulder. He says quietly, “You’re forgetting why I’m here.”

Rolling his eyes, Tony plucks the empty glass out of Stephen’s hands and brandishes it at him. “I can  _ assure  _ you I’m not.” How could he? One’s own death wasn’t the sort of thing one  _ forgot.  _

“You misunderstand,” Stephen says. He sounds almost regretful. “You’re forgetting who I am.”

“An asshole?” Tony raises an eyebrow, twirling the glass between his fingers.

Stephen snorts, sounding half-exasperated. “Well, probably. But I’m also  _ me,  _ and you’re the crown prince who’s been ignoring the entirety of a political connections Celebration in favor of yours truly. And is now offering me a dance.”

Tony drops from his starlit, imaginary excitement with a sickening lurch. He lowers his hand slowly.

Tony Stark is a symbol, a figurehead. Everything he does is watched, judged, conscious; it’s always been so. He’s never had reason to mind it, nor to pay attention to it, as most of the people he interacts with are counting on the fact that people are watching. Often they’re in the exact same boat. Interaction has always been always about making statements, announcing relations. And Tony’s not used to this—used to a man who doesn’t want to be seen. 

“Oh,” he says. He feels awful, feels disappointed, even though he has no right to. “Right.”

“It’s—It’s not that I don’t want—” Stephen cuts himself off, looks away, shifts awkwardly, then looks back up. “But I’m not supposed to draw attention to myself.”

“A little late for that,” Tony says, sounding snappish. 

“You know what I mean.” Stephen’s expression goes defensive in response to Tony’s tone, and the prince tries not to flinch. “Your family will take notice. The  _ university student  _ isn’t going to hold up beneath any sort of questioning.”

_ And you make people question.  _

“What does it matter if people notice?” Tony demands. “What does it matter if people realize?”

Stephen’s hands tuck behind his back. “We’re talking about your  _ life,  _ your Highness,” he says, somehow sounding both cold and earnest. “I won’t take chances on it.”

The irritation drains out of Tony on the end of a sigh. “Yeah, I know.” He rubs his face with his hands. “I just…”

“I would,” Stephen says. He sounds awkward, but not tentative. “I would. But tonight…you’d better give that dance to someone else.”

Tony doesn’t want to. But he nods anyway, because there isn’t much else he can do. His days are numbered if he lets himself fuck this up—whatever this bizarre preemptive justice really is. He tells himself it isn’t conceding, not completely. There’s still, well. There’s still two more nights. Three more days.

And then there’s all that unknown beyond. 

Surprised by thoughts of  _ after,  _ Tony shakes himself and remembers there’s a sorcerer still waiting for his words. He gives a grin, forced at first but easing into genuineness, and says, “or we could just watch Peter and Loki put snakes in the trumpeters’ bells.”

Stephen frowns. “Just watch?”

Tony laughs, and suddenly the rejected dance doesn’t matter at all. “I’ve made a horrible mistake introducing you, haven’t I?”

“Well, there’s no going back now,” says the time traveler. 

“No going back indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dance with the prince, Stephen. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Drop me some feedback if you have the time, and I hope everybody has a fantastic week. :D


	5. The Third Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Welcome back for chapter five! Little more investigating from our favorite wizard this time, as well as some insight on recent events in the Order... Plus, Peter and Loki learn a few things! 
> 
> Thanks so much to multifan again! All mistakes continue to be mine. <3
> 
> Hope you like!

There’s a trick to writing, one Stephen has developed through years of careful practice. He holds the pen with three fingers and the thumb of his right hand at a slight inward angle. The pointer finger of his left hand braces against the tip of the pen. It stains his skin with ink, but it keeps the shaking of his hands from skewing the writing beyond complete legibility. 

It also means he has to scribe from right to left to avoid smudging the new ink as he lays it down. This doesn’t bother him; it’s an innate muscle memory at this point. Stephen writes quickly, efficiently. 

Noon of the third day since he turned back time finds him in the library, the same hidden corner Tony had taken him to before. A roll of paper is stretched out before him. It’s the only blank sheet Stephen managed to find, and he uses the space frugally, keeping his thoughts neat and small. He lists the names he’s learned and the defining traits he remembers. He sorts them into degrees of suspect, and is more than a bit dissatisfied with the result.

He has… very little to go off of. Finding those who  _ won’t  _ kill the prince doesn’t exactly leave him confident. Stephen lays the pen against the table and sighs.

Mind whirling, Stephen closes his eyes and breathes deeply to try and ease the dizziness of his thoughts. He still feels ungrounded without the sight through his Eye. The feeling of stuntedness is no longer as alien, however, and Stephen hopes he never has to get used to it again. 

His fingers slide to his chest. The library is empty—he’d made sure of it when he snuck in earlier that morning. No one would see. He would incriminate nothing, opening his Eye for a few moments here in the pages and the dust reminiscent of Kamar-Taj. Perhaps nothing productive would come of it, but it would soften his energy slightly, and Stephen yearns for his last sense to stop being dampened. 

He brings his hand to his neck and pulls his amulet out from beneath his robes. Back in his Kamar-Taj robes, he’s just slightly too warm, but he doesn’t mind. None of the Masters are present to observe him, so Stephen forgoes most of the Opening formalities. 

He does, however, silently recite the Oaths of the Order. They are comforting and as known as his own skin, and they crowd the rest of his thoughts and memories out of his mind. What was once a reminder of his limits—the acts forbidden and the acts unknown—has long since become the soothing routine that allows Stephen enough meditation to open his Eye. 

He closes his hand around his amulet. The pattern of his Eye bleeds across the back of his palm, slightly warped by the scars in a way that’s now integral to its design. Stephen covers half of his physical gaze and Blinks. 

And is unchained. 

His vision is clear once again, curling with power and residual souls and the eddies of time. Stephen breathes in, and he can see the air ripple with the transfer of energy. The sight is like the shine of the sun off new snow. It’s like all the satisfaction of clean windows, clear skies. Stephen has  _ missed  _ it.

He turns his Gaze around the library, and he revels in the  _ knowledge  _ he can see soaking through the space. He perceives it like a mirage, like an overlay, but it makes everything clearer instead of blurring the borderlines. Stephen could concentrate and pick out the ages of these books. He might even be able to place their origins. That would involve scrutiny, however. 

This is only a respite, Stephen reminds himself. He’s not here to categorize a royal library. He thinks,  _ that’s Wong’s job,  _ and grins a bit.

The other record-keeper would be halfway through authorizing Master Hamir’s mission back to seven years ago—the one to save that dam that Stephen doesn’t even remember being in danger. He knows the mission only from the records. The Revisionists share memories almost communally; it’s the only way to keep track, to stay sane. Stephen wonders what they’ll think of this job, when it’s finished. 

Lowering his gaze, Stephen draws a wobbly loop with the pen, an unconscious illustration of his current timestream. He can’t use his left hand to stabilize the movements. It’s the prime vulnerability of having one’s Eye open, though it’s never been an issue for Stephen. Or rather, it’s never been an undo sacrifice. 

He knows the time of day inherently; the Celebration will begin again in around six hours. Stephen has accidentally acquired another outfit after sleeping somewhere Staffmaster Potts could notice him. This night would be the celebration of budding traditionally, and he can’t help but look forward to the evening.

The quiet’s nice, but Stephen prefers the quick words of a prince and his noble's heir and Asgardian entourage. 

He Blinks again, relaxing into his vision for one more moment. He watches the dust, the lights, the memories. Then he goes to return his Eye to the containment of his amulet—

And pauses. He sees something; a flicker of energy, a soul, moving through the bookshelves. 

Stephen stands quickly, crumpling his paper in his available hand and knocking the pen back to where it had originally been discarded. He ducks out of view. His footsteps are all but silent, but the approaching ones aren’t, and Stephen’s Gaze locks onto them easily.

The energies are unfamiliar, but when the figure steps into the range of his physical sight, Stephen finds he recognizes the figure. It’s the silver man from the throne room. Obediah Stane, Tony had said—the advisor that Stephen couldn’t read.

Now he can. And he doesn’t like what he finds.

Stephen Sees alertness in Stane’s energy. Stane checks his surroundings frequently, and moves with the speed of an individual in a hurry. Reading intention tinged sour with slyness from the man, Stephen lets the input from his Eye run alongside what he sees physically, and is left only dubious. This is a man who doesn’t want to be found. 

Stephen narrows his Eye and trails Stane through the shelves. The golden glow of the gilded lanterns falls in dappled patterns like sunlight through a bird’s wing. Stephen can track each individual ray back to its specific origin. He refuses to get distracted, however, sticking to the shadows and behind cover that only a sorcerer would be able to sense him through. Stane is moving purposefully. He knows precisely where he’s going, what he’s looking for. 

Stephen Sees when the advisor stops, watching the threads of time and energy even out. He eases forward to lean against one of the shelves. Ghostly quiet, Stephen goes unnoticed, and he lets his physical eyes adjust to the shadows of his position. 

Stane is trailing a finger over the spines of the books. There’s no dust left on his skin when he pulls away, and Stephen knows precisely why. He himself cleaned it away two nights ago, passing his fingers over those same books. 

They’re Revisionist books. 

They’re Revisionist books, ancient ones, full of histories and old prophecies and long-dead Masters, describing basic mechanics that no one in this palace has had any reason to read for a generation now. Stane pulls them out and leafs through them with interest.

Carefully, Stephen lowers his Eye from his face and lets it close back into his amulet. 

The transition back to blindness is far less jarring, now, but Stephen still sways on unsteady mental legs for a few moments. He blinks rapidly, as if clearing away the sting of sweat, and the quiet inhale of his breath is sharp in the silence. Stane glances up. 

Stephen darts back behind the shelf before Stane’s gaze can find him in the shadows. He holds his traitorous breath and waits.

“Who’s there?” Stane says—his voice a respectful volume in the quiet space.

Stephen doesn’t so much as twitch. His instincts are sparking, and he keeps careful track of the sound of Stane’s movement as the man moves away from the shelves. He doesn’t hear Stane return the books. 

When he can no longer distinguish Stane’s distance, Stephen moves around the curve of the shelf. The quiet of the library presses down on him. He winds his way toward the exit, infinitely careful to stay out of view, and wonders. 

Even the crown prince, the gifted and educated heir, had known little about the mechanics of Revision. Though he’d picked up on it quickly, the subject was obviously uncommon knowledge—uncommonly sought, and uncommonly used. What relevance did they have to Stane? Stephen can’t convince himself it was simply curiosity, not with the  _ slinking  _ the advisor had been doing when his rank and title would keep most everyone from asking questions.

So, then, who is he hiding from?

Stephen is not, strictly speaking, a hunter or rogue. If a job requires theft or assassination, he has neither the experience nor the moral code to be the sorcerer selected for it. That being said, he knows how to move silently when he wishes. He’s picked up where to put his feet, how to hide his movements, and what to do with his hands. It has saved his life on multiple occasions.

Now, he uses it to duck, wraith-like, through the halls of the palace. He draws on Tony’s descriptions, anticipating Stane's movements, and paces himself to avoid the suspicion of the servants. He is never in the same corridor as his target. His pace is casual, unhurried, even if his eyes dart across every face and feature around him. He can't recognize them. 

When Stane locks himself securely in his quarters—a lavish set of rooms built beneath one of the towers that Stephen catches a glimpse of before the door swings closed—Stephen opts to wait. He sits on the bottom step of the spire, just out of view of the main hallway, and watches the door. His elbows leave dents where they press into the skin of his knees. He orients himself in his space to keep busy. From the stairwell he sits in, the sound of bells echoes. If this is the clocktower’s spire, then he sits squarely to the west of the throne room. The library is halfway across the building by now. The north courtyard—and the window seat above it—would look out onto this place. 

The window Tony had described as his favorite, the one castle stories said was haunted. The one he’d die in, in less than three days. 

Stane emerges purposefully about an hour after Stephen settles down to wait. He doesn’t look around—why would he? This is his home, after all, and Stephen supposes any suspicion Stane might have felt in the library has dissolved. Good.

He waits exactly two minutes, watching Stane disappear into the depths of the palace, and then he moves. The door to the advisor’s quarters isn’t locked, luckily—a Revisionist’s Eye gives an edge to picking locks, but shaking hands make it nearly impossible. Stephen slips inside and tries to look like he’s supposed to be there. 

Stane’s rooms give him pause. The flash of color he caught before was the barest of impressions—and it didn’t prepare him for the  _ wealth  _ displayed in every curve and corner of this place. The Avelshi crest and its colors are proudly wrought into the decoration. Wooden furniture hasn’t lost its sheen. The place is kingly, in a way that puts Stephen on edge. Stane sits to the left of the throne, not in it. 

The king’s advisor, who would take the duties of the crown prince in the event of his death. Who can go anywhere, but chooses to move unnoticed. Who flaunts the crest of a powerful bloodline he doesn’t belong to. 

_ Most dangerous are the men who look above themselves and see competition,  _ the Ancient One’s voice whispers. 

Stephen doesn’t wish to remain here a moment longer than necessary. No books litter the space he’s entered, so he goes looking for where they might be kept—an office, perhaps, or a study.

It doesn’t take long to find. Stephen needs only to open two doors before he’s slipping into a smaller, plainer room to poke around a sprawling desk. The books, the ones he’d skimmed in the library with Tony, are stacked neatly along one corner. Others he doesn’t recognize lay open on the surface. Loose parchment is gathered in stacks, and a single, beautiful, gold-gilded pen lays to their left.

Stephen, careful not to disturb the layout, peers at the arrangement. The unfamiliar books are… histories, as far as he can tell. There’s no specific time period between them. Stephen sees careful transcriptions of old Order communications, political lines, and royal bloodlines. 

But his eyes are drawn instantly to the Ancient One’s name. Old and faded, it’s recorded alongside others long lost to time. 

Stephen knows the Ancient One’s name is no lie. He knows that after two anchor points to her timeline, her power has let her jump and Revise and live longer than any sorcerer in history. The limits of her Eye are nonexistent. 

Or they were.

Stephen clenches his teeth hard enough to ache and forces himself to pay attention. The Ancient One trusted him with this—it makes no difference whether or not she was forced to. 

But he still remembers the blood and the cold of that night, the way it had stormed rain that tasted like soot. He remembers how he’d run, soaked to the bone, as though his very steps could stop what had already happened. He remembers how he’d held yellow fabric stained scarlet and dark. He remembers how he’d bound a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding and met an empty gaze that would never truly See again. 

The fact that Stephen  _ remembers  _ says everything. In a world where it all could be rewritten, he remembers.

He doesn’t know how many versions of that night he’s lived. He doesn’t know how it happened originally, before the night was rewritten, time and time again to try and stop whoever it was that attacked so brutally. He doesn’t know how many loops he lived before the Masters finally gave up trying and allowed the Communal Timeline to settle into something Stephen still cannot accept. He doesn’t know, and the Ancient One forbade him asking. When he did anyway, no one would tell him.

It’s all the answer Stephen needs. 

They couldn’t stop it. 

They  _ can’t  _ stop it.

In all those days that came after, the days that haven’t yet happened and he can’t keep from happening, Stephen wondered why whoever it was didn’t just kill her. Why they took her senses, her magic, and left her limping with what was left. Why they would spare not even that mercy.

Stephen relaxes his jaw and pushes the memories away. He has a lot of memories, but few disturb him as tenaciously as these. They’re still fresh— and, unlike so many others, they actually happened. 

He brushes his shaking fingers across the pages in front of him, seeking out subjects and consistencies. Within the flowery language of the old texts, he can spot descriptions of timeline mechanics. The book in the middle of the desk is open to an example scenario, illustrating how events rewrite and what rules they follow in broad terms. Stephen takes careful note of the page. Then he begins to flip backward. He gaze snatches dates, alternates, histories, and even snags on a slightly inaccurate diagram of how future-walking and prophesizing work.

What use is it all? Obviously, understanding is valuable in and of itself, but what is Stane doing…  _ analyzing  _ it like this?

Unless it is simply curiosity, and Stephen’s only being paranoid. For all he knows, Stane has a passion for the old relations and the intrigue of magic. Vishanti know he wouldn't be the only one. But Stephen’s  _ here  _ to be paranoid, here to change a future— and the rules for how he’ll do it are written out before him. 

Would the information here aid a murderer?

Stephen leafs through the pages faster, which rustle like the autumn leaves outside. His hands shake, and it’s slightly more pronounced than usual. His thoughts stray again. This time, they’re toward Tony—the young man who trusts Stane with his kingdom, who trusts Stephen despite his mother’s opinions and his father’s teachings. Tony, who is kind and intelligent and interesting, and who was and will be dead. 

Unless Stephen does something. Unless he  _ succeeds.  _

Abruptly, Stephen wants to succeed. It’s different, now, different wanting what comes with triumph as opposed to simply wishing to avoid what comes with failure. It’s different, wanting the crown prince to  _ live,  _ instead of just not wanting him to die.

It’s different because he can’t imagine Tony Stark dead.

Stephen returns the book to its original page and stands back. Then he slips from the rooms like he was never there. 

It’s time to learn more about Obadiah Stane.

{(●)}

Tony joked, the night before, that it had been a mistake introducing Stephen to Loki of Asgard. The true mistake, he finds, was introducing him to Peter Parker.

“So!” Peter says, bursting out onto the training grounds with a whirlwind of a smile. It’s early afternoon; the Dynasty Celebration has shifted the sleeping schedules of nearly everyone in the castle by now. The sun was shining straight into Tony’s eyes when he finally pulled himself into the land of the living not an hour and a half ago.

“So what?” Tony wonders, turning around and letting his sword drop to his side. 

“So, where is he?”

“Where’s who? Your Asgardian buddy is probably still asleep… how long did we stay up last night—”

Peter bounds over beside Tony, cutting him off by swiping Tony’s sword from his hand and tossing it between his own. Dismissively, Peter says, “Not him. I mean scholar doctor friend.”

Tony straightens. “Stephen? What’s it to you?”

Peter points the sword at him and looks up at Tony mischievously. “How long  _ did  _ you stay up last night?”

“Oh, stuff it,” Tony splutters. 

“Come ooooon.” Peter tosses the sword back to him and ducks away from Tony’s joking swipe. 

“He’s just a guy from the university,” Tony says. “We’re talking Revisionist history.”

“Uh-huh.” Peter cranes his neck to peer at Tony even as he pulls a training sword from the selection near the edge of the grounds. “All night. Every night so far.”

“The court knows shit about Revisionists,” Tony protests. “It’d be beneficial to have a contact that actually understands enough about them to help inform our interactions and decisions. I’ve been introducing him to the palace.”

“To secure, like, information for the court or something?” 

“Sure.”

Peter starts snickering, not even bothering to hide it as he lifts the dull sword. Tony glowers. 

“You like a guy who studies magic.”

Tony raises his sword. “Shut up.” 

Peter ducks forward, and their swords meet playfully. The dull metal shrieks as the blades slide against each other. 

Neither waits for a cue, dropping instantly into the heart of the spar even as they continue speaking. Peter blocks Tony’s thrust against the flat of his blade, stepping aside, and says, “so, where is he? I didn’t see you invite him to dance. Not like you to be chicken.”

“I  _ did  _ ask him,” Tony huffs, stepping forward lithely. He thrusts, and Peter’s forced to retreat a few steps. The kid returns with a skillful swipe. 

“But you didn’t actually dance. Come on, nobody  _ doesn’t  _ dance with Crown Prince Stark.”

“Apparently Stephen Strange doesn’t.” Tony grits his teeth against the force of Peter’s blow. “Don’t leave yourself open like that; you’re leaving your sides completely exposed.”

Peter corrects, stepping back a bit to reposition his hold on his sword. Then he swings again. “Why not?”

“It would be…” Tony searches frantically for an explanation that doesn't involve Eyes. “Inappropriate.”

The lie falls flat, and they both know it. Peter raises an eyebrow. Tony swipes at his arm, calling Peter’s attention back to his blade as the prince’s blunted weapon strikes his shoulder. 

“Bullcrap,” Peter informs him. “We both know you don’t care about status.” 

Case and point: Tony’s sparring a low noble’s heir in the heart of the training grounds as they speak. 

“He can’t dance. He’s from the university.” Vishanti, he hates lying to Peter…

“I mean, you can  _ teach  _ him,” Peter says, like he’s an idiot. Which, fair.

“I offered that!” Tony parries, his footwork leaving swirled troughs in the dirt and grass beneath him.

“And?”

“And he respectfully  _ declined.” _

Peter frowns. “Why would he do that?” 

“I don’t know.”

Sometimes, Tony thinks Loki might’ve taught Peter how to taste falsehoods like he had an Eye of his own. “Yes you do,” the kid laughs. “Come on, Strange’s totally smitten with you.”

“It’s because—wait, he is?”

Peter gets through his guard, dull sword striking Tony’s leathers before Tony can deflect it. Grinning, Peter says, “Yeah, obviously.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“And  _ you’re  _ totally oblivious! He wouldn’t stop looking at you all night. And he was smiling the whole time.”

Their blades clash. Tony spins sideways, and Peter follows him as best he can. He keeps up, but it’s clumsy. Relentlessly, Tony forces the boy into movement, and then onto the defensive. 

“So why’d he say no to the dance?” Peter presses.

“What if I said it was none of your business?”

“It’s obviously none of my business, your Highness.” Peter uses the honorific in that way he always does—he never calls Tony anything else, and it’s become both respectful and fond. It has the same connection as Peter calling him by his first name at this point. 

Tony feints, and Peter doesn’t fall for it. He brings his blade up to catch Tony’s in time. They break apart, the wind tearing at their training garb, and spin to face each other again. 

“I just, I dunno.” Peter strikes, then retreats. “He seemed really cool. And you seemed really happy. It’s not that often that you seem  _ happy  _ with people you flirt with.”

“He flirted first.”

“Yeah, so why’d he refuse the dance?”

Tony huffs. He dances back, sword raised to parry Peter’s blade as the kid ducks in and out like a spider testing its web.

“You’re relentless,” he informs Peter.

“Yeah, is’cause you haven’t actually  _ answered the question,”  _ Peter says.

“It’s—” He  really  _hates_ lying to Peter.

“Please? I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

And he wouldn’t. Tony knows that like he knows the weight of a sword hilt or the warmth of the sun. Peter Parker is more honorable than everyone in this palace put together—would be even if most of them weren’t sleazy politicians. Tony knows more about him than anyone else alive, and slowly but surely, the kid is returning the favor. 

Tony sighs, and Peter’s eagerness skyrockets even as he misses a block and takes another hit. Taking the advantage, Tony slices up and sideways. He nails Peter in the chest and again in the gut before Peter manages to permanently deflect. Peter can hold his own, but there’s few in this castle that can consistently defeat the prince in a sword fight.

“So—okay, look, Stephen’s not actually from the university.”

Peter misses another parry. “I knew it!”

“No you didn’t.”

“Okay, maybe I didn’t. But I should’ve! So it counts!” Peter beams.

“I don’t think that’s how it works, kid,” Tony chuckles.

“It is now. Anyway, sorry. I, uh, shouldn’t have interrupted!”

Tony huffs over the loud, piercing sound of clanging metal. It was enough to give most people a headache. Not him, after long years. 

“He’s a Revisionist,” Tony says. “An actual, flesh-and-blood Revisionist.”

Peter stops short. His eyes go comically wide, and he does that thing—the one where he bites both lips at once. “He  _ is?  _ From the Order and stuff?”

Tony lowers his blade. Usually, he’d take Peter’s distraction for what it was and finish the spar, but it isn’t like he’s not also distracted. 

“Yeah, from ‘the Order and stuff.’ And he’s here on a mission.”

“What mission? What happened?” 

“He’s… stopping a murder.”

“A—a  _ murder?  _ Does the Queen know? The King?” Peter’s fingers play nervously across the blade. It’s a testament to his shock that he mentions Howard. 

“No, they… he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s here. So that whoever it is can’t try to stop him from changing what happens.”

“But…” Peter frowns. “Why did he tell you?”

Tony takes a step forward, instinctually wishing to soften that nervousness from the kid’s demeanor. Instead, he knows he has to sharpen it, and it makes his insides twist. “It’s, well, it’s because I’m _ …  _ I’m the one who died.”

Peter’s sword drops from his hand.

“No.”

Tony takes a step forward. He can’t quite close the distance, but he can get closer to the boy, the exertion of the spar still tinging Peter’s face pink. Peter is looking at him, his hands in fists and his mouth half-open, his chest caught between breaths. He’s looking at Tony like he’s already dead. 

“No,” Peter says. “That’s not—we can’t let that happen. We can’t let that happen.”

“It’s not,” Tony promises.

“Not now.” Peter shakes his head. “You’re not going to die. You’re  _ not,  _ not now, not after everything.”

“That’s the goal,” Tony says. He tries to grin, but it falls flat. He remembers the look Peter had given him all those years ago, the seal of the Parker bloodline clutched in his young fingers when it had no one else to go to. When Peter was the last one left. 

_ Not you too,  _ Peter’s face pleads now. The training ground’s dust tastes like rust when Tony runs his tongue over his teeth.

“Hey.” Tony kneels, scooping Peter’s sword off the earth and shifting it into the same hand as his own. “I’m not going to die. Okay? I literally have the magic of time on my side; whatever happened… before, or will happen, or whatever Stephen remembers happening in the future—it doesn’t matter, alright? It doesn’t matter, if we change it here and now.”

Peter swallows. He swipes his sleeve across his nose and takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Tony grins. “There, see, you really  _ do  _ worry about me.”

“I don’t worry.” 

“Do so.”

“No!” Peter huffs. “I was just—” He cuts off with an unintelligible grumble and elbows Tony in the stomach.

“Life tip, kid; don’t poke the guy with the swords.” Tony raises both training blades and smiles as evilly as he can. 

Peter yelps a laugh and ducks out of the way of Tony’s joking swing. He catches the prince’s wrist, then scrabbles for the hilt of his training sword. Letting him sneak ahold of it, Tony steps away and rolls his neck. 

Peter sheaths his sword. Then he narrows his eyes at Tony and crosses his arms, saying, “How can I help keep you from—y’know.” 

Tony shrugs. “Just… keep an ear out, alright? If you see anyone who seems overly suspicious or hostile, anyone with access to a strange weapon, let me know. And keep quiet about the truth, obviously, even to—” 

Tony’s cut off by a drawling voice slicing out from the corner of the training ground. 

“I do hope you aren’t suggesting keeping secrets from me,” Loki purrs, a knife spinning across his palms. “That would be tremendously ambitious of you.”

Tony stares at him. Even Peter jumps at Loki’s words, turning around hastily and half-drawing his sword. 

Tony rubs a hand over his face. “Damn it.”

“So, the little title-less academic is a sorcerer,” Loki muses. “This explains my observations rather well. It’s certainly impressive that I did not initially realize.”

“Loki,” Tony grinds out. “Your royal highness. Your most gracious princehood. What the  _ fuck  _ are you doing here?”

“Listening in on your conversing,” Loki replies easily. He tosses his knife between his hands.

“Great. Fantastic!”

Loki smirks at him. “Have I  _ inconvenienced  _ you?”

“How long have you—how much did you hear?” Tony demands. 

“Hm,” Loki says. “Most everything of import.”

Tony scrubs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “ _ Wonderful.  _ You understand that your actions could be identified as espionage and conspiring against the crown? Significantly impacting the negotiations between our kingdoms?”

“Perfectly,” Loki says, cleaning under his fingernails with the blade of his knife. 

Tony blinks for a very long time. 

“Loki,” Peter pipes up.

Loki drops his hands and rolls his eyes.  _ “Obviously,  _ I shall be silent about this matter.”

“Thank you very much,” Tony snaps, sarcastic. 

Loki regards him, then nods once. “I suppose I’ll help you,” he declares.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Shrugging, Loki moves to stand beside Peter, tossing the boy the knife in exchange for the training sword. Loki tests the edge of the blade, then grimaces. He hands it back to Peter. “Your kingdom is dreadfully boring,” he says, as if that’s explanation enough. “And you are obviously in desperate need of some competent assistance.” 

Tony has to admit, the Frost Prince’s help would not be undesirable. Loki collects secrets like he collects blades, and both hoards are equally dangerous. If Tony trusted him further than he could throw him, he might even be relieved by the offer. 

“You want to help us solve a murder,” Tony says.

“Does it need clarification?” Loki sounds bored. 

“He doesn’t want you dead,” Peter added. “None of us do.”

Loki nods. “Shockingly enough.”

Tony huffs, the side of his mouth turning up. “Well, then who am I to refuse? Just—don’t get in Stephen’s way, alright? And try not to completely destroy anyone’s political standing in the process.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Loki purrs.

_ Liar.  _ Tony grins. 

Peter smiles back. It’s a little shaky, and his hands are still twitching nervously aside his sword hilt, but it’s a good sign. “So he’s a Revisionist, then,” Peter says. 

“Stephen? Yeah. Thought I cleared that up.”

“You did, yeah.” Peter nods. “So he didn’t want to dance with you because he didn’t want to draw attention to himself and possibly undermine his mission.” 

Tony peers at him, exasperated. “I just told you there’s a magician here to stop me from being  _ murdered _ , and  _ that’s  _ what you’re focusing on?”

“Absolutely,” Loki cuts in. 

Tony rolls his eyes. “Fine, yes. He’s trying to stay  _ under the radar.”  _ Tony glares at Loki as he says the words. Loki just sneers at him.

“What about the Queen?” Peter wonders.

“What about her?” Loki shrugs. “Stark has obviously made his own opinions about the nature of Revisionists.”

“My mother—has her own sentiments,” Tony says.  _ And so does my father, apparently. Sentiments they keep secret, alongside prophesies I’ve never seen.  _ “I don’t comprehend them, not completely.”

“I’m sure she’d understand. This is to save your life, after all,” Peter says.

Tony nods, adding, “apparently she sent Stephen back here in the first place.”

Loki snorts. “Compromising those  _ sentiments  _ so easily.”

Instantly, Tony’s gaze snaps to Loki, narrowed and powerful. His shoulders have straightened, and he stands like a king where a friend was a moment before. His voice comes out dangerous. “Do not insult my family.” 

Loki blinks. He meets Tony’s gaze for a moment, hazel eyes flashing, and then he lowers them. “My apologies.”

Tony relaxes. “It’s fine,” he says, and tosses his sword between his hands. “So, to answer your question, Peter, I’ll keep politics out of this the best I can.”

Peter snorts. “You, keeping  _ politics  _ out of something? Blessed will be the day.”

“Oh, shut up,” Tony laughs. He runs a hand through his hair and adds, “I’m not sure what other reason someone would have to kill me, though.”

“Yes, murdering an kingdom’s heir is usually an act of political motive,” Loki says flatly.

Tony glares at him. “Yes, thank you for your input.”

Peter sheathes his sword again and steps between them. He lifts two fingers, pressing the corresponding digits of his other hand against them. Then he announces, “Okay, so we have two priorities. Number one: figure out who killed you in the future and stop them from doing it again.” He gets two nods of affirmation and continues, “Number two: find romantic ways you can court the sorcerer without drawing attention to yourselves.”

Tony splutters. “What?”

Sagely, Loki notes, “I believe I have a few ideas.”

Tony’s face heats. “I don’t need your help, thank you very much.”

“Don’t you?” Loki cocks his head at him. 

_ Oh, can it, icicle boy.  _

Glaring, Tony strides across the edge of the training yard, casting his sword back onto one of the racks. The sun is sinking lower, reminding him that the start of the Celebration is creeping ever-closer. His stomach is quick to remind him he won’t be able to get through tonight without a proper meal. Tony stretches his arms above his head with a sigh. Unbidden, he thinks about that one stubborn fiddle and the way the navy stain of blueberry juice had turned the tips of Stephen’s fingers blue. 

_ ‘I would,’  _ Stephen had said. If not for the situation, if not for the mission, if not for everything and everyone they couldn’t control, he would have taken Tony’s hand. 

Tony thinks that might just be enough. 

When he turns back to Peter and Loki, they’re watching him with pointed expressions. Tony flips them off. “Okay,” he begins, “fine. I have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obediah's suspicious... What is he up to?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Drop a kudos or a comment if you have the time, and I'll see you next week. <3


	6. The Third Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Welcome back :). Little bit of theorizing, lore, and backstory for everyone this week! Let me know how the pacing feels; this chapter took a bit of reworking.
> 
> Enjoy.

When Stephen makes his way to the now-familiar Great Hall’s stairwell, the crown prince is already waiting for him.

The third night of the Celebration has started out energetically. The guests have found their feet and established their circles by now, knowing where they want to be and how they want to get there. Outfits have grown ever-more elegant and flashy. Stephen can hardly take two steps between noticing a stunning piece of embroidery or a skillfully wrought set of jewelry. Laughs ring out alongside the music, still so new and enthralling, and the autumn night pours its breeze through open windows. 

The Celebration has found its feet. Stephen’s grown more comfortable, as well. The display is more beautiful than anything else, and Stephen slips through the crowd with far more ease and respect than he had his first night. He knows when to wait, when to smile, and when to avoid eye contact.

Despite the intensity, Stephen relaxes when he steps into the Great Hall. The hours after he left Stane’s quarters crawled by on the backs of eavesdropping and persuasion. Nothing he learned was particularly helpful—but at least he knows the general castle’s attitude toward his suspect, now. Still, slipping into the Celebration feels like slipping out of armor. 

Stephen knows he has the prince grinning at him from the spiral staircase to blame.

“Hi,” Tony says when Stephen steps up beside him. “Good day?”

“Depends on the definition,” Stephen replies. 

The grandeur of the Celebration has increased with every passing night, and Tony is no different. His robes this evening are once again the deep red of sunlight off the edge of a garnet, but they’re folded through with a pure gold. When he lifts his sleeves, the inside of the fabric lightens to a soft pearl. Gilded designs are stitched along the cuffs and shoulders. The scaly tails of embroidered dragons frame the cut of his neckline, and stylized feathers are clasped in their claws. He still wears his sword. And tonight, a circle of spun silver rests half-hidden in his spiky hair. 

Stephen looks away before his lingering look could be considered a stare. “You look stunning.”

“And you look like you have exactly three outfits in your possession and no way to wash any of them.” 

Stephen gestures to himself with a dramatic flare of his wrists. “Correct.”

Tony grins, and it’s as stunning as the rest of him. “You’re certainly making good of it. Where have you been stowing away during the day, then?”

Stephen shrugs. “Here and there. I was at the library this morning, actually, working through what I’ve found out.”

Tony nods. “And that is…”

“Not a lot,” Stephen admits. “But I’m… narrowing things down.” 

He makes a split-second decision not to mention Stane, or the quite impressive snooping he’s been doing. Tony believes the advisor, for better or for worse, and all Stephen has against a lifetime of the prince’s experience is a gut feeling and trust issues. It isn’t as if conspiracy is rare in the heart of kingdoms, after all—not all of them have to involve regicide. 

And besides, well. Stephen quite selfishly wants to forget about Stane for the moment. Forget about everything. 

“Good.” Tony claps his hands. “A little progress is better than no progress.”

_ When it’s your life at stake.  _ They’re both thinking it, but neither voices the words. 

“I have an update,” Tony says. “It may possibly involve accidentally revealing your identity to Peter and Loki.”

Stephen can’t say he’s surprised. “I suppose if you’re still alive they’re probably not plotting anything.”

“Oh, they’re definitely plotting,” Tony mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing.” The grin Tony gives him is mischievous. “Just, they’re willing to help, if you need another pair of eyes around the castle. And they aren’t easy to find, either.”

Stephen huffs a laugh, remembering the laughs and the tricks Peter and the Frost Prince had executed the night before, respectively. The pair isn’t exactly inconspicuous. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.” Tony straightens a cuff over the edge of his wrist, and the motion makes the shifting fabric gleam in the light. 

“So.” Stephen clears his throat. “What do you want to do? It’s the third night, after all—any other pressing introductions to make?”

Tony smiles at him. “No, I have something better.”

He takes Stephen’s wrist, leading him toward the base of the staircase that curls up above them. Stephen trips over himself once, trying to start walking with the wrong foot, and his quiet yelp is lost to the chatter around them. Then Stephen’s following the prince’s gait. They take the stairs two at a time. 

The balcony that wreathes the edge of the Great Hall is noticeably warmer beneath the sconces and glowing chandeliers. Near-perfect acoustics in the hall allow the music to reach them almost more easily up here. Tony breaks into a run once he’s free of the crowd, tugging Stephen behind him. It shocks a laugh out of him. 

They circle the hall, reaching the opening on the other side. Tony leads Stephen past the bay window that looks out over the North Courtyard and the seat nestled against its curtains. Not slowing until he reaches two heavy doors, Tony runs, and his robes flare out behind him. It looks like he has wings.

Stephen catches his breath while the prince uses his shoulder to nudge open the door. It swings outward, letting in a rush of fresh air that winds around their ankles. Stephen can see the castle wall extending out before quirking out of view in a sharp corner. The revelry of the Celebration taking place in the courtyard reaches his ears. He looks at Tony, and the prince gestures through the door in a clear invitation. 

Stephen steps through the door, and Tony lets it swing shut behind them. The worn wood of the floor turns to cool, hard stone. Stephen takes a deep breath of the gusting wind and feels the last of the tension drain out of him.

“We came out here before,” he says, glancing sideways at Tony.

“You paid attention to my tour, I see." Tony sounds pleased. “So did I. You seemed to like it out here.”

It was true. The open air was nice, and the isolation of the high, arching castle wall was magical in its own right. Stephen liked being outside. It made him less sensitive to the input—or in this case, lack thereof—of his Eye.

Tony walks beside him, and together they trace the path of the wall. They watch the turrets spiking up against the moonlight in silhouette, the spires proudly flying crested flags that dance in the breeze. To their left, the courtyard is lit with multicolored lanterns and humming with guests and musicians. The speckled lights of the capital city spread out on their other side, like a reflection of the glittering sky above. Stephen pulls his rolled Avelshian sleeves back down over his forearms as the autumn air seeps cleanly through him.

“I like your climate,” he says. His voice can be soft in the quiet that surrounds them up here. “It’s nice.”

“I’m glad,” Tony replies. “Fall is my favorite time of the year, I think.”

Stephen hums. He thinks he agrees.

They’re silent again but for the echo of their steps. Tony stops when the path widens out atop a circular turret strung inside the wall, changing his direction to lean against one of the parapets. The wall turns a corner and extends east to their left. Stephen looks behind him, realizing they’re as far from the heart of the palace as it’s possible to be, at the very edge of the palatial complex. The firelight hardly even reaches out here. 

Tony looks at him. The starlight reflects in his eyes, turning his smile to sharp silver. 

“I can still hear that damn fiddle,” he says. 

Stephen chuckles, moving over to stand beside him. He rests shaking fingers on the stone of the parapet. Dust flurries in the air in their wake. 

“I used to come up here with my mother when I was little,” Tony says suddenly. “We’d walk in the evenings and talk.”

Stephen looks at him. The prince’s profile is touched with the snowy glow of the sky, and he leans easily against the stones.

“We haven’t come here together for a long time. But it’s still kind of a special spot, y’know? You can see the stars from here like nowhere else in the castle. Maria loves to watch them.”

Stephen curls his fingers over the edge of the wall. “And your father?” he asks quietly.

Tony doesn’t look away from the city beneath them. “Howard told me stories. Once. I hardly even remember, really, and I don’t know why we stopped. He just… gave up looking at me after a while. Like he couldn’t bear to get to know me any further.”

“His loss,” Stephen murmurs. 

“What was he like? In the future, I mean?”

“You mean after you died?” Stephen asks. 

Tony shrugs, then turns and sits against the edge of the turret. He tips his face upward, lifting one hand to pull the circlet from his head. He sets it beside him. 

Stephen sits down next to Tony, one knee pulled up to his chest. They’re close enough that the wind blows the edges of Tony’s robes against Stephen’s arm and shoulders, and it’s soft even through the fabric of his own shirt. Stephen’s spine presses against the rocks that support them. 

“He was…different,” Stephen admits. “I’d never really met him before. But he was determined, and flexible. And he stuttered, once or twice, over your name.”

“Huh.” Tony’s lips quirk. “He’s a good king.”

Stephen nods his agreement. “You’ll be better,” he says, and finds he believes it.

“I’m certainly going to try,” Tony says.

Grinning, Stephen elbows his side. “I mean, how hard can it be? You just have to maintain and prospect the largest kingdom on the continent.”

“Yeah, well,” Tony chuckles. “I’ll have help.”

Stephen turns his head, resting his ear against the wall so he can watch Tony. “If you didn’t have to be king,” he says, “where would you go? What would you do?”

Tony frowns at him. “You say that like I don’t want to be king.”

“Do you?”

“I…I don’t  _ not  _ want to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Tony shrugs. “I think it is. I want what it allows me to create. I want to be able to make the world a better place. And if it's my destiny to do so from the throne, why resent that?”

“But—”

Tony raises a hand, gesturing widely. “What about you? If you didn’t have an Eye, what would you do?”

Stephen raises his hands in defeat, cracking a grin. “Okay, okay, you have a point. It’s just…”

“Who we are?”

“Yeah.”  _ Who we are.  _

Tony turns his fiery eyes up, gazing toward the stars, and the constellations blink. Like they’re gazing back. Stephen doesn’t blame them. 

There are so many stars, and nothing hiding them from Stephen’s view on this open, autumn night. He imagines it was time, that great and unforgettable force, that took a handful of glowing diamonds and cast them out the onyx sky. Now he has the fortune to watch them where they scattered. Great swaths of light painted through individual dots of silver make him feel as though he’s falling. Falling, safe and warm, tucked up against Tony’s side. Idly, Stephen counts the stars and the slow breaths of the body beside him.

“I’m sorry,” Stephen finds himself saying, “that we met like this. With what you’re here to do and what I’m here to stop.”

Tony looks over at him. “I’m not.”

{(●)}

Howard used to tell Tony stories of the stars. Tony can still remember them, crisp like the wind that rustles his hair now. They were sweet and young. Tony’s held them close for years, little treasures he’d locked up tight and kept for himself, keys to the memories they settled along with. 

He’s adding to them now. He’s breathing in and filling his lungs with as much of this peaceful moment as he can, and he wants to hold onto it forever. 

“How old are you?” he wonders. 

Stephen shifts beside him. “I don’t know,” the Revisionist replies.

“What?”

“I don’t know. It can be… hard to keep track.”

“Oh.” Tony hums. “Ballpark estimate then?”

“No younger than twenty one, no older than thirty two.” Stephen lifts a shaking hand and tips it in a  _ so-so  _ gesture. “But it doesn’t really matter at the Order.”

“What does?” Tony asks.

“Matter to the Order? The natural cycle of the seasons and the stars. Your personal accomplishments. Renewal and constants and chance.”

“That’s… kind of ironic,” Tony observes. “Age is pretty much the only true connection the rest of us have with time, and it doesn’t even matter to you.”

Stephen shrugs, and Tony can feel the movement against his own shoulder. He fights the urge to lean closer. One of Stephen’s hands pulls at the chain around his neck. He frees his amulet from where it was tucked beneath his shirt, and for the first time, Tony sees the carved pendant that holds the magic of his closed Eye. 

“I was going to ask you something,” Tony says. “About the Order.”

Stephen looks at him, multicolored eyes glinting in the starlight. “Ask away.”

“Do you know anything about prophecies?”

Stephen blinks once, like he’s surprised by Tony’s question. Tony supposes it was somewhat out of the blue, and he tries to look like he’s just curious, guilty as that makes him feel.

“Future-walking is… complicated,” Stephen says. “As nothing in the past is set in stone, neither is the future.”

“Okay.”

“So, when we jump into the future, it’s akin to jumping into the past. The Communal Timeline stretches equally in both directions—separate from us and our memories. Therefore, a future-walk only gives the information that would occur without any tampering by Revisionists.”

“Which means it’s limited.”

“Right. We don’t often future-walk, because for one thing, it’s difficult, and for another, there’s very little reason to in the long run. For example, the last time I jumped forward in time, it was a few weeks in the future in order to investigate the consequences of a specific disease. That way I would know whether or not to jump back and eliminate the origin before it could become a problem.”

Tony squints. “So?”

“So, I could have just waited out those weeks normally, figured out what I needed to know, then jumped back from there. The future-walk wasn’t strictly necessary.” 

“But it was convenient. You didn’t have to live through the diseased world.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Stephen says. He turns to face Tony, his other leg crossing beneath the one pressed to his chest. 

“What does this have to do with prophecies?”

“Prophecies are vague because we can only see certain events—ones that might not even end up being remembered in the long run. Many of the events a future-walker sees will never even happen. Like, a Revisionist might have been able to see the diseased world I prevented if they had Looked  _ before  _ I eliminated the threat. But even if they’d glimpsed it, after my Revising, the disease would never actually happen to them or the rest of the world. So they might as well have seen nothing.”

Tony crosses his eyes. “That makes my brain hurt.”

Stephen chuckles. “Yeah, well, that’s why we keep so many records. And it gets worse.”

Sighing dramatically, Tony leans forward and braces his chin in his palm. “Hit me.”

“Very powerful sorcerers can see echoes or hear whispers of things that might be changed,” Stephen continues. “It’s even more vague than what the rest of us notice. But  _ that’s  _ where the prophecies come from. Those whispers or echoes.”

“Okay…”

Stephen closes his eyes, as if trying to remember something specific.  _ “‘The war will ravage, lest Order aid you seek. The change leaves treasure in your hands, but beware the tensions that magic only stalls.’  _ See? It’s not even a definitive statement. It’s just a thing that will  _ maybe  _ happen, given such-and-such parameters are filled or this specific guy decides to contact the Order for help.”

Something turns over in Tony’s mind, sending a tingle of realization fluttering through his veins. He’s careful to keep any of it from showing on his face. “Prophecies don’t just happen on their own. They have to be  _ fulfilled _ .”

_ ‘Every one of my decisions could be manipulated by a Revisionist at any given moment. I know your father’s are.’ _

_ ‘That prophecy. That damned prophecy.’ _

What was Howard after?

Tony can hardly see it, but in front of him, Stephen smiles. “Pretty much, yeah. Most people take much longer to wrap their heads around this stuff, you know.”

Tony tries to look like he heard what Stephen just said. “Yeah.” 

“Why the interest?”

“Just curious,” Tony says, and hates himself for it. But he is the crown prince, and there are secrets it is his responsibility to keep.

Stephen believes him, and it makes Tony feel worse. 

He digs further anyway. If he can figure out who exactly Saw what was then given to Howard… “You said ‘very powerful sorcerers’. Does that mean only specific people give the royal prophecies?”

“Yup.”

“Let me guess; for the past forever, it’s been the immortal Ancient One.”

Stephen looks away. “Yeah,” he says flatly. “For the past forever.”

He breathes in deep, and it’s shaky. Tony doesn’t notice, thinking about what that means, thinking about how he can learn what she glimpsed. How he can learn what’s endangering his family. How he can protect them. 

Then he shakes himself. This isn’t what he’s here for, not tonight—he’d said he’d try to keep politics out of this. Whatever the hell  _ this  _ even was. 

“Sorry,” Tony says. He settles back against the wall. “I didn’t mean to interrogate you.”

“No, no.” Stephen gives him a half-smile. “You’re curious. I like that about you.”

Tony looks away and hopes it’s too dark to see his ears turn red. From Stephen’s soft laugh, it isn’t. 

“Do you, ah, like it up here? We can go back in if it’s too cold,” Tony says.

Stephen snorts. “ _ Cold?  _ This place? What an adorable suggestion.”

“Shut up, mountain man. It’s not my fault you don’t live in a habitable location.”

“And it’s no wonder you’re all so  _ feeble  _ without winters that try to turn you inside out.”

Tony presses his hand to his chest in mock offense. “ _ Feeble?  _ I am insulted!”

“Feebly so.”

“I’m almost certainly heartier than you, stringbean,” Tony proclaims. “Honestly, how did you people even manage to build a  _ life  _ in those mountains? There is no need for society there. Give the Far Reaches back to nature.”

Stephen laughs. “It grows on you,” he says. “I promise. The late-summer at Kamar-Taj is like nothing else. I’ll have to show you sometime.”

He says it casually. Easily. The starlight glances off his cheekbones, and his face is soft with happiness, and Tony smiles back.

“Sure,” he says. “I’d like that.”

{(●)}

Stephen doesn’t know what’s happening to him. Or maybe he does. It’s warm, and it’s light, and it’s the color of autumn leaves and starlight, and he doesn’t want it to stop.

He wants to say something, something that will crack the seal of everything that’s building up in his chest, but he doesn’t know what. So he stays silent, and that’s fine too. 

They sit on the castle wall and watch the stars. The sky dances like the revelry beneath it, and a prince and a sorcerer rest in some ethereal no-man's-land between the two. Stephen feels heavy and featherlight all at once. His heart pounds in his chest, and it matches the beat of that faraway fiddle. 

Then Tony reaches out and takes his hand. And everything falls apart. 

Stephen pulls away—a full-body flinch of instinct and terror that cracks the back of his skull against the parapet—before he can stop himself, before he can think. His hands curl protectively toward his chest, his Eye heavy and burning at his throat. Tony rocks back like he’s struck the pane of a window. Stephen’s breath comes fast. Tony’s eyes are wide. 

“Woah,” Tony says, and he raises his hands slowly, non-threateningly. “Woah, I’m sorry, I—shit, I thought—”

Stephen wants to speak, to tell him  _ ‘no, this isn’t you’,  _ to take his hand in return. He can’t seem to draw enough air for any of it. Phantom pain splinters up through his fingers, reaching to his elbows, and Stephen hisses against it. The noise breaks halfway through, and Stephen grasps desperately for a breath that won’t come. 

_ “Shit.”  _ Hands are on his shoulders, carefully avoiding the chain of his amulet and the fingers wrapping desperately around it. They press gently. “Hey, Stephen. Open your eyes, okay? Just look at me.”

Stephen doesn’t. His head is a haze of unconscious hostility, like a beast backed into a corner, and what space is left is soaked in mortification. The memories aren’t even  _ real,  _ not truly. And here he is, panicking anyway. Like when he was a child. It’s been years, it’s been  _ years— _

“Stephen, please. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that. I thought—I shouldn’t have. Just look at me?”

Stephen claws his gaze upward, meeting Tony’s worried brown eyes. Starlight shines through the fringes of his hair and paints the edge of his jaw sterling. Taking a shaky breath, Stephen tries to pull back even further. The wall is unforgiving at his back. 

He pries his fingers away from his Eye. At least he didn’t open it this time. He pictures the Ancient One, remembers the words she would repeat until he could repeat them too.

_ You’re not going to hurt me. _

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Stephen says. Tony’s gaze flickers with confusion. 

_ You’re not a danger, and you’re never going to be. _

“I’m never going to hurt you.”

Tony pulls his hands back from Stephen’s shoulders. “What—of course not. You’re safe.”

Stephen draws a breath, and it comes clear and crisp. He takes another. Leaning away from the wall, he lifts his hand to rub at the back of his throbbing head. A bruise is growing where he collided with the stone, but it’s nothing that won’t fade. He steals a glance at Tony. The prince’s wide eyes meet his, and Stephen winces.

“Sorry,” he says. “That, er. That happens. Sometimes.”

“ _ You’re  _ sorry?” Tony exclaims. “I’m the one that went and—after you specifically told me not to—I’m an asshole, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Stephen says. He finds he means it, flexing his fingers until nothing but the normal ache plagues them. Looking up again, he gives Tony an awkward smile. “It’s not your fault.”

Tony’s eyes flicker to his hands, and Stephen swears he can feel them tracing the patterns of the scars. He swallows. Then, the movement purposeful and somewhat struggling, he lifts his hands and lays them on his knees, exposed. 

“You have questions,” he says quietly.

“It’s—you don’t have to indulge my curiosity,” Tony tells him. He sits back against the stones, his shoulders slightly hiked. 

Stephen gives him a look. “Then you’re only going to be confused when I do this.”

Stephen takes his hand. 

The prince’s fingers are short and calloused from the sword, curling lightly around Stephen’s in return. Stephen’s hands are always cold, and Tony’s skin is hot in comparison. His knuckles are dry. The trembling of Stephen’s hand is stilled inside his grip. There’s a quiet intake of breath, then silence. 

Lightly, Tony’s thumb shifts to trace the twisting scar across Stephen’s pointer finger. No longer surprised, no longer unprepared, Stephen feels no fear. He concentrates on that point of contact, at that touch that never thought him dangerous, never expected him to be anything more than human. 

“Do they hurt?” Tony wonders.

“A little,” Stephen admits. “But I’m used to it.”

Then Tony looks up, meets his eyes, and asks, “what happened?”

And Stephen suddenly doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t know what words to use, what he should hide. Only the Ancient One knows everything—Stephen hasn’t told this story since he was a child, still shaken and lost.

He swallows, and forces himself to keep Tony’s gaze. “Lots of people fear Revisionist power,” he begins. “And some go as far as hating it. Thinking we, and what we can do, is evil.” 

“My—”

“Not like your mother,” Stephen is quick to clarify. “There’s a difference between disagreeing and disliking the Order and actively trying to—to keep it from being able to continue. Queen Maria just doesn’t understand, and I can’t fault her for that. I don’t.” But he still sounds bitter.

“Okay,” Tony says. “You told me before. That you were surprised by how many people think you’re a monster.”

“Having an Eye sets me apart.” Stephen tries, but he can’t hide the bitterness in his words. “Makes me abnormal. And…no matter what you try, no matter what you do, you can’t make me normal again.”

Tony’s hand goes still in his. Freezes, like he’s been turned to stone like the walls around them. Like he’s already realized—and maybe he has. 

“Who was it?” Tony says, lethally calm. 

“It didn’t actually happen.” Stephen rests his head on the wall behind him and closes his eyes. “I was just a kid. I didn’t even realize what was happening, and I didn’t know what I was doing. Jumping back in time was just instinct.”

“But you still remember,” Tony says. “And you still have the scars.”

“They were trying to fix me. Do what they thought was best for me.”

“Stephen.” Tony’s voice is quiet. “Who was it.”

Stephen sees ivory and mud and crushed golden grass behind his closed eyelids. “My family,” he says. “They tried to take my Eye, when it first manifested, but they didn’t have the tools or the rituals—so all it did was hurt. I was in the barn, and I had—I had a shovel—and I—” 

His words choke off. He takes a long breath, and it hangs between them. 

“I fought back,” he whispers. “And I think…”

Ivory bone bared to the air, blood turning the dirt to mud, still blonde hair spilling out atop the golden grass. 

“That’s when I jumped,” he says. “Back in time, back to before my family had ever realized I was a Revisionist. And I ran. I ran, so they never found out, so they’d never know what happened to me—or what I did to them. They’re probably still looking for me, even now.”

Tony’s grip is gentle, and Stephen can feel his pulse where their fingers join. It’s quick, horrified, even if the prince’s face shows none of it.

“Where did you go?” Tony asks.

“Away,” Stephen replies simply. “I was hurt, and scared. If the Ancient One hadn’t found me, I wouldn’t have gotten far. I’d met other people on the road, but they thought I was a demon—a bleeding kid talking about running away from the future he’d changed? Not exactly something that isn’t going to curse you, if you’re a superstitious farmer in the Far Reaches.”

Stephen remembers those long days like they’d happened to someone else. Feverish from infected wounds and terrified of the Eye that was still visible through the carnage of his hands, the time was all but a blur to him now. He still wonders how many times he jumped back or forward in time without realizing he’d done so. 

“But the Ancient One took me back to Kamar-Taj.”  _ That  _ he did remember. His clearest memories are of the Ancient One’s kind smile and perplexingly bald head. It had made a bleeding, delirious child laugh. “Saved my life, she did. But still, if I’m not expecting pressure or contact on my hands, it… reminds me of what happened.”  _ Viscerally.  _

Tony nods. He understands—he truly does, and it strikes Stephen with so much relief that he smiles, wide and true. 

Tony frowns at him. “Why are you  _ grinning  _ at me? You just told me that in an alternate universe, you killed your family members fighting back against them disfiguring you to try and make you into something you weren’t.”

Stephen winces. “It sounds bad when you say it like that.”

“That’s because it’s  _ fucked up,  _ Stephen. I’m so sorry.”

“At least it didn’t actually happen.”

Tony looks at him incredulously. “You’re scarred from it in more ways than one. Just because you were able to keep it from happening to anybody  _ else  _ doesn’t mean it didn’t happen to  _ you.” _

He says it like it’s so obvious—like his hurt is justified, like he wishes he could’ve stopped it happening to Stephen, too. Like Stephen didn’t do anything wrong. 

It takes some of the fear away. 

Tony shifts his grip so their hands are parallel and interlaces his fingers with Stephen’s. The wind picks up in a gust that rustles his star-touched hair, and the prince’s abandoned circlet skitters across the stone a few inches. Stephen looks at it. Then he lifts his hand to his neck and pulls the chain of his amulet up over his head. Carefully, he sets it down beside the crown, and the bronze chain clinks against the silvery metal like casted bells. Somewhere, the clocktower sings the time in low, long notes that mean nothing and everything to Stephen, all at once.

Tony’s face is turned toward the amulet and circlet, and Stephen can see all the sharp, strong edges of it. When Tony looks up, sensing Stephen’s attention in that way he always seems to, his gaze is searching. Stephen doesn’t risk forming an expression. Whatever Tony’s looking for, he’ll have to find it in Stephen’s eyes or not at all. 

The moment stretches, infinite. 

Then Tony looks away. His pulse is beating sharply against Stephen’s fingers, and Stephen knows his own echoes it. 

The prince is looking everywhere, like he can’t quite pin down where he’s supposed to rest his gaze, and it makes Stephen chuckle. With the hand not currently entangled with Tony’s, Stephen points to the sky. They both look up. 

Glittering in the hold of the moonless night, the stars steal their sight, but not their focus. Their hands curl a little tighter, their shoulders press a little closer. Tony’s crown and Stephen’s Eye rest beside them, meaningless in this one moment that holds magic of its own. 

The sky has cast its spell, and they’re falling into it.

It feels like flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	7. The Fourth Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Longer wait that time around; I'll make up for it with a l o n g chapter. Enjoy 12k of investigation and these stupid idiots pining for each other! Also Peter and Loki co-star in the role of 'best ever'.

The next day, Tony wakes to the unapologetic assault of both the late morning sun and the clocktower chiming the hour. He groans, burrowing his head under his sheets. It solves the light problem; the chiming, however, continues  _ far  _ longer than it has any right to. It can’t possibly be that late. The obvious explanation is that Tony has spontaneously lost the ability to count. Obviously. 

Last night comes back to him in a gentle gust, and Tony smiles into the soft light of his room. He remembers sitting under the stars so long that his fingers had gone numb, so long that the sky had begun edging toward turquoise. Leaving Stephen to return to his own quarters and let the Revisionist rest had felt like breaking a spell. Stephen had sleepily informed Tony that closing an Eye felt completely different. 

_ “You’re like a kitten when you’re tired, Strange.” _

_ “Mhm.” _

Tony sits up and flails his arms through the dusty sunbeams. He knows the castle is already awake, but the thick walls of his quarters dampen everything to a comfortable sort of quiet. It’s only the Celebration that justifies his sleeping in, of course. Any other day he’d be at his duties—and any other night he’d be getting to bed at a reasonable hour. 

Sweeping his legs off the bed, Tony stands. He dresses slowly, mind wandering, nose a bit stuffy from so long in the autumn air. Everything is comfortably soft, comfortably light, and Tony plans his day without feeling hurried and thinks about his agenda without feeling heavy. He wants to look at the sky, wants to smile and mean it. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt like this. 

He wants to always feel like this.

His door creaks when it opens, that stubborn groan that has permeated the hinges ever since the young prince made the mistake of leaving a window open on the winter solstice. Tony steps through it with a yawn. His sheathed sword knocks against his hip. 

Something else knocks into him a moment later, an excited body wrapping its arms around him in a greeting hug. Tony lets out a squeak of surprise. Then he huffs and hugs Peter back.

“You’re finally awake!” Peter crows. “How did it go? Loki and I have been making bets all morning. Literally  _ all  _ morning, as it’s practically afternoon now. You missed the news; apparently a thief managed to make it in and out of the castle with one of the crowns. The king has been furious for hours.”

Tony winces. “You should have come and woke me up,” he says, extricating himself from Peter’s hold. 

The boy smirks at him. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

It takes a moment for Tony to realize what he means, and then he’s rolling his eyes and gently shoving Peter back in admonishment. “You are unbelievable,” he huffs. “Nothing happened.”

Peter peers conspicuously at the door behind Tony as if waiting for someone else to come out of it, and Tony shoves at him again. He’s not sure whether he should laugh with embarrassment or exasperation—or just laugh. Peter grabs onto his wrist and twists it before Tony can touch him, and Tony moves with it before breaking away and sending the boy stumbling off-balance. Peter pouts.

“You’re no fun,” he says. “So Revisionist Strange isn’t climbing out a window or something?”

Tony rolls his eyes again. “No, I didn’t manage to bang a wizard.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Peter!” 

Peter cackles, and Tony decides to blame Loki for the kid’s mischievous streak—because Tony absolutely, certainly, one-hundred-percent didn’t have anything to do with it. Obviously. 

“Sorry,” Peter says. “I’ll stop poking you.”

“It’s okay,” Tony sighs. He’s not exactly sure  _ why  _ he’s so easily flustered about this— _ say it like it is, Tony, about  _ him—when he’s always been rather shameless in the past. Peter knows it, hell, the whole kingdom knows it. 

And they want him on the throne anyway. For reasons Tony will never understand, this kingdom had given him their hope, dubbed him worthy. They judge him, yes, and they push him, of course, but in the end, the nobles and the court and the citizens  _ believe  _ in him. He can only hope to be who they all seem to think he already is. 

Tony rubs the back of his neck, cheeks still warm. He’s never let have Peter have the last word when the boy's teased him before. But he’s never told a scarred magician from the Far Reaches his dreams of the future before, either. He’s never woken up with memories of iridescent eyes and constellations in his thoughts, either. 

Maybe it makes a bit more sense than he was pretending. 

Peter seizes his wrist and tugs him down the hall, thankfully in the direction of the ground floor. Tony will need to meet with Howard and get caught up on the Asgardian negotiations as quickly as possible. He has an excuse prepared about what he was doing last night. He wonders if he’ll even need to use it, if what Peter said about Howard’s distraction that morning was true. But the crown prince’s absence would mean questions, and those questions would go unanswered even when they made their way up to the thrones. 

Oh well. Tony had done damage control before. 

Peter takes Tony’s silence as an invitation. “So come on, spill,” he says. “Did it go well last night? Did the weather cooperate? I’ve been dying of suspense.”

“Why are you suddenly so interested in my love life?” Tony demands.

“I just like seeing you happy,” Peter tells him. “You’re my favorite… mentor person. Pseudo…whatever it is you are.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Thanks.”

“Hey, that was a compliment.” Peter grins, but what he says next is solemn. “You’re going to be king someday, and I don’t want you to be alone.”

He says it strongly, pointedly. ‘You’re  _ going _ to be king someday.’ Like Peter is reassuring himself while simultaneously daring fate to contradict him. Tony is suddenly reminded of the secret—their secret—that’s lurking closer with each passing hour. It sours his mood as only murder can. 

Still, he reaches out to ruffle the kid’s hair. “I won’t be alone. I have you, don’t I?” 

Peter, and Pepper, and Rhodey and Thor and Loki. And maybe even a enigmatic Revisionist with a brilliant wit and and brighter smirk, if he's lucky.

Tony really,  _ really  _ wants to be lucky. 

“You know what I mean,” Peter says, and Tony does. 

They walk to the ground floor together, passing a few wandering court members and untold numbers of housed Celebration guests. Unusually, they don’t pay Tony any attention. Some other gossip has secured their attention, and though Tony is spared bows and nods, their interest is elsewhere. Tony hears the king’s title shining in conversations here and there. That isn’t strange, in and of itself, so Tony pays it little attention. 

Though the odds of noticing the prowling sorcerer are admittedly low, he keeps sweeping the corridors for Stephen. He wonders where Stephen ended up last night—or rather, earlier this morning. He knows for a fact the man’s been tucking away in mostly random locations. Offering him a guest room always seems to slip Tony’s mind until it’s too late.

Well, at least it keeps Stephen out of the radar of the knights and guards. Not that Rhodey wouldn’t understand, of course, but that  _ was  _ the point of a secret. Tony glances at the decorative armor looming at him from the flank of the throne room door as he and Peter move toward it. Whatever knight it belonged to would be rolling in their grave to see it so dusty and unpolished. Howard doesn’t keep them well-maintained—which is weird, as the rest of the castle is balanced as if on knife-point. 

Whatever. It’s one of many things Tony will never understand about his father. 

They enter the throne room with a boom, the doors closing imposingly behind them. The king and queen are elsewhere. A few servants bustle in and out, still clearing away the signs of last night’s party before they prepare for the fourth day, and the chandeliers are unlit. Tony and Peter trot toward the dais. 

Loki is lounging insouciantly on the steps, just beneath the king’s throne and completely irreverent to any message he might be sending. Tony rolls his eyes. Loki looks lazily up at him, tossing a coin repeatedly with his left hand. 

“Greetings, your Highness, on this fine  _ afternoon,”  _ Loki purrs. 

“Shut up, Loki” is Tony’s instant response. 

To his credit, the foreign prince straightens his posture a little when Tony steps onto the dais. Peter doesn’t follow; it would be terribly improper. They both watch as Tony trails a hand along the curved edges of his mother’s chair. He sends Howard’s only a glance. He’s never touched the king’s throne—he never will, until the day it becomes his own. 

“Your king and queen have been looking for you,” Loki informs him after a moment. Tony looks toward him, and Loki adds, “you have missed quite the spectacle.”

“Yeah, Peter told me,” Tony says dismissively. “Some jewelry thief or something that the king’s overreacting about. Do you know where my parents ended up?” 

Loki shrugs. “No.”

“Extraordinarily helpful, thank you.” 

“I don’t even keep track of my own brother,” Loki says with a quick grin, “and you expect me to properly observe  _ your  _ family?”

“My mistake,” Tony says sarcastically. He pokes Loki with his foot as he bounds back off the dais. “I’ve gotta find them. See you.”

He goes to turn, but Loki’s voice pulls him back. “You aren’t even going to ask what I’ve discovered?”

Both Tony and Peter look at him sharply. The expression on Loki’s face is infuriatingly smug, out of place in the bustle of the throne room. It’s Peter who demands, “you’ve found something out? And you didn’t tell me?”

Loki is unrepentant. “I’m telling you now. Your King Howard is searching rather  _ vehemently  _ for what is no common thief.”

Tony frowns. “What?”

“Word is there was a crown stolen,” Loki says. “But I may have forgotten to stay away from the windows of the north office and  _ overheard  _ mention that it is no wrought circlet that has gone missing.”

It’s at times like these that Tony really hates the Frost Prince’s sense of drama. “Just spit it out, please.”

“The prophecies,” Loki says. 

Tony goes still.

“The what?” Peter asks. His head cocks in that way that makes him look like a curious golden retriever. 

“The prophecies,” Loki repeats. “This generation’s Revisionist prophecies.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Peter argues. “King Howard and Queen Maria know their prophecies by heart, don’t they? And they must have copies of them. One probably got misfiled or something—that’s not exactly hard. Why does it matter that a sheet of paper has gone missing?”

“Because no one’s ever seen them,” Tony finds himself saying. He checks their surroundings to make sure no one else is in earshot. 

“What?”

“No one’s  _ ever  _ seen my parents’ prophecies,” Tony repeats. “Not even me.”

Loki leans forward, his eyes gleaming with interest. His shadow spills down the steps of the dais. “Asgard has always believed we were never informed of their contents because the prophecies were simply nothing of consequence.”

Tony shakes his head. “You haven’t heard anything because  _ no one  _ has heard anything. The prophecies have always been a secret of the crown, even to me.” 

“Still,” Peter says. “Why so much fuss?”

Tony looks at him, wringing his hands as his mind goes racing. “Because now someone else knows.”

Peter blinks, his eyes widening. “Oh.”

“Yeah,  _ oh.”  _ Tony glances around again. “I don’t know what the king wants hidden so badly, but he’s keeping it that way for a reason.” 

_ ‘Prophecies don’t just happen on their own. They have to be fulfilled.’ _

Unease bubbles in Tony’s chest. 

“Do you think this has something to do with… y’know,” Peter says.

“Something to do with the plot to kill your lovely crown prince?” Loki tosses his coin again. “I would be surprised if it was a coincidence.” 

“Your Highness, do you think Stephen might know?” Peter moves a bit closer to Tony, as if he can sense the agitated spiral of Tony’s thoughts. “Why the prophecies might have been stolen, I mean?”

Tony shakes his head, trying to contain his guilt. He should have told Stephen about his suspicions as soon as Maria had even let it slip that there was something wrong that first afternoon. “No,” he says. “He doesn’t know.”

Peter looks a little disappointed, but moves on with determination. “Okay. Uh. We, uh, should figure out what we can. And obviously keep this between us.”

“Yes, yes,” Loki sighs. “If you insist.”

Tony nods, not really listening. “I’ll go find the king, see if I can figure anything out about what he wants.”  _ What he’s trying to make happen.  _ “You two; see if you can find Stephen. He might be in the library, or in the servants’ halls.”

“Okay,” Peter says, bobbing onto his toes.

“Do I look like a messenger pigeon?” Loki grumbles, but he stands anyway. His black robes are touched with green, and his Eye hangs unhidden in front of his chest. For a moment, Tony sees a golden circlet and bronze amulet lying together atop a stone-grey wall.

Tony turns, letting his thanks bid them goodbye, and flees the room. He goes north; Loki might not know where his parents are now, but he’d mentioned the north office. Tony’s sure it’s as good a place to start as any. This time he pays attention to the whispers of those nobles, hangs onto all their words he can catch. He understands, now, why Stephen was so distant, so careful, so insistent that he avoid attention; any one of these people could be holding the knife tomorrow. 

_ Tomorrow. _

It sinks in, then, as Tony flies through the tapestried halls of his home, that he isn’t safe. He never was.

It’s more jarring than Tony wants to admit. 

Tony shakes himself and keeps going, his stride picking up into a run. When he nears, he finds the door to Howard’s office cracked open, and a shadow passing through the beam of light that stretches from it. The single figure only stalls Tony a moment. Steeling himself, he pushes inside. He doesn’t knock.

Howard turns to look at him, his face flattening like it always does when he looks at Tony. He stares at Tony, and Tony stares back. He tries to read through that weight in Howard’s expression.

“What’s going on?” Tony says. 

“Just a common thief,” Howard answers. If Tony hadn’t grown up with it—hadn’t formed defenses against it—the utter, confident authority in the king’s voice would have made him concede instantly. 

“Your Majesty.” Tony stands his ground. “What did the Ancient One warn you about?”

If Howard is surprised, he doesn’t show it. “That’s none of your concern.”

“This is my kingdom too,” Tony says. “Whatever it is that you’re trying to do, I can help. I know it has something to do with the Revisionists—why else would mother spend all these years setting up the separations?” 

And Howard had helped her, despite the power and influence the Order provided for Avelshi. He wouldn’t do so without a reason. Without a  _ benefit.  _ Everything the king did was to further the interests of the court, of the kingdom—so why push the Revisionists away? Why  _ hide  _ it?

“The prophecies are nothing of consequence,” Howard tells him, voice icy. 

In all of Tony’s twenty-eight years of life, he’s found nothing as enervating as speaking to his father. The part of him that calls itself Tony wants to bow and retreat before that frigid expectation can grow into disappointed. The part of him that wears the title of crown prince with pride will not allow it. He has a duty to this world, a responsibility to save it. He is not without power, here.

“Is that why you’re panicking over a copy that’s gone missing?” Tony demands. “Every other king and queen made their prophecies public, shared them with the court so Avelshi could anticipate and respond to them.”

“Times change,” Howard says, brown eyes glinting. He isn’t tall, but he still towers above Tony as a giant might. “It isn’t your place to question the choices I have made for this kingdom.”

“I think it’s  _ exactly  _ my place.” Tony crosses his arms, keeping his chin raised. “It’s my place to watch and learn and dispute and be  _ better.  _ So let me—”

“We have kept the prophecies unknown for a reason,” Howard says, orotund. “And you are no exception.”

“But now someone else has seen them,” Tony cuts in. 

“And you should not even know that much.” Howard takes a step forward, the movement no less threatening for its passivity. “How did you find out?”

Tony fumbles, just for an instant. “Mother. She… mentioned something, then refused to explain when I caught onto it. And then the disturbance today. It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together. What happened this morning?”

“It’s under control,” Howard says, and Tony can’t even tell if he’s lying. 

Tony’s fists clench. “Father…”

“You  _ should  _ be giving your attention to your duties in the Asgardian treaty and managing the interests of the court in Celebration. Duties you’ve been ignoring.”

Tony flinches, but he doesn’t back down. “If you would just tell me—”

“No.”

The word leaves no room for argument, spoken as if to an enemy. Like Tony is an enemy. His throat closes almost on its own. “But…” he tries, one more time.

Howard turns away. “You’re dismissed.”

And then Tony’s looking at a nothing but the ancient panels of a closed door, no less lost than when he started. 

{(●)}

A sausage, admittedly, is not a very effective weapon, though Stephen gives it his best attempt. It’s therefore convenient that it turns out he’s not actually being attacked. 

“Woah, woah!” Peter Parker laughs, sidestepping Stephen’s instinctual sausage-swipe before it connects. “Just us; remember us?”

Stephen does, in fact, remember Peter and the Asgardian that lurks behind him. When his adrenaline drains away, Stephen drops his sausage a bit sheepishly. He’s energetic, despite the fact that he hardly slept a wink. He couldn’t get last night out of his head—but unlike the other memories that curl in the dark, these were warm and safe and right. Stephen wants to wrap them in careful fingers and treasure them as he should. 

How could something so quiet feel so utterly remarkable? 

Stephen doesn’t exactly stand out in the servants’ halls, at least not more than he stands out everywhere else. But Loki and Peter look like emeralds dropped onto a dirty barn floor. The common garb of even a low noble is strikingly out of place in this place of sweat and efficiency. These two wouldn’t be here if they didn’t have a reason. 

Stephen nods to Peter, then extends his left hand, half curled, in respectful greeting to the Eyed Loki. Loki repeats the gesture. Stephen feels a small curl of pleasure at being properly acknowledged for once, though all he does is raise an eyebrow. 

“What do you want?” he asks. 

“His Highness sent us to find you,” Peter says, bouncing on his toes. He looks slightly nervous.

Stephen’s other eyebrow joins the first. “Tony? What does  _ he  _ want, then?”

Loki drawls, “you should already know, if you’ve been doing  _ anything  _ useful while inside the servants’ halls.”

“Not all of us are built off blackmail and spy-work, Loki,” Peter sighs, elbowing the other with something that was either amusement or exasperation. 

“A shame,” Loki says.

Stephen resists the urge to rub his face. “Can we focus, please? What does Tony need? Is he alright?”

“Yeah, he’s fine,” Peter says. “But apparently an important document went missing last night? The king and queen told us it was a treasure thief, but Loki heard what really happened by, ah, being where he wasn’t supposed to be by total happenstance.”

Stephen cocks his head. “An important document?”

“The current Revisionist prophecies,” Peter says. 

“What’s so special about—” Stephen cuts himself off. Last night glows in his memory, and he recalls Tony’s voice, innocently curious. 

_ ‘Do you know anything about prophecies?’ _

“Oh,” he says quietly. Then, louder: “I suppose that would be a problem.”

“Yeah,” Peter continues. “Nobody’s ever seen the prophecies, except the king and queen obviously, so whatever it is they’re trying to keep hidden is now…”

“Significantly less hidden?” Loki provides.

“Yes, that.”

Stephen nods. He’s not an idiot—the kind of influence a stanza of prophesy can have is no small fact. The future, to normal people, is this great and empty  _ thing.  _ They’re fearful of it. Something that can quantify it, even to the small and heavily conditioned degree that the prophecies do, is coveted and powerful. 

_ ‘Just curious.’ _

He’s not an idiot. A trusting Revisionist is a useful tool—

Stephen clamps down on that thought before it can root too deeply into his head.  _ That’s not fair.  _ He’s not an idiot, but he’s not blind either, and Stephen knows—he  _ knows— _ that he’s not being used. At least not by Stark the younger. Years of distrust don’t discredit this one good thing he’s managed to find. He won’t let them. 

There are things Stephen wouldn’t share about the Order, and it’s only expected that there would as many, if not more motives Tony would have to hide about the regime. Everyone has a reason to ask questions. It doesn’t discount curiosity. 

But it still stings, just a little. 

“I don’t know the most recent prophecies, if that’s what you’re asking,” Stephen says. “I manifested my Eye long after Howard and Maria were crowned.”

“No, we just thought it might be connected. Y’know? Maybe not, of course, but like, it’s Revisionist-related, and you’re Revisionist-related, and neither of those are particularly common—”

Stephen cuts off Peter’s babbling with a laugh. “Shh, I understand.”

Then he turns, swiping the summer sausage from the tabletop he’d abandoned it on and taking a bite, mostly on autopilot. The flavor somehow manages to be smoky and exceptionally exotic. Infuriating. It’s delicious. 

Stephen says, “I need more data. What else did you See?” He corrects himself; “I mean, what else do we know?”

Loki shrugs, sweeping smoothly to stand at Peter’s side. “Very little, erstwhile.”

Peter nods earnestly. “His Highness doesn’t know the prophecies, but he said he thinks they’re hiding something. I could guess, but they could contain anything, really. The future is unknown to all the rest of us.”

Stephen’s mind spirals, his thoughts running up against each other, turning like gears in a clocktower. Prophecies are  _ far  _ out of his area, at least currently. His studies contained interpretation of the usually vague and often conflicting stanzas of prophecies or futurewalks, but he understood little about the ones playing out currently. Even if ‘currently’ was a relative term when it came to this. 

The Ancient One would have warned only of important, critical events—it was part of the oaths of a Revisionist, after all, not to influence trivial matters. But even with true, looming dangers, Stephen couldn’t understand why a king or queen would want to keep the knowledge hidden. Terrible predictions were far less intimidating when they weren’t  _ uncertain.  _ They could be anticipated, that way. The kingdom could work to contain plagues or stop wars before they even came to pass, no more involved Revision necessary. And if they were unstoppable in the moment, the prophecies indicated what role the Order would play in those events. 

So why would King Howard and Queen Maria  _ hide  _ the Ancient One’s words?

Tony had already answered that question. 

_ ‘Prophecies don’t just happen on their own. They have to be fulfilled.’ _

“Someone’s trying to influence fate,” Stephen says into the silence. He starts into motion, ripping another chunk off his sausage as he begins to race toward the castle proper. He doesn’t wait for the others. 

They follow, of course, Peter’s voice coming alongside a frown. “Influence fate?”

“It’s the point of the prophecies,” Stephen clarifies, “to… parameterize and anticipate the future. There are things they don’t know for certain. And there are  _ always  _ conditions.”

“Someone is attempting to create those conditions,” Loki surmises. “To ensure the future plays out in a specific way.”

“Yes,” Stephen says. 

“Is that bad?” Peter’s steps are lighter than theirs, almost silent, and it’s obvious he’s slowing his gait for the rest of them. Offhandedly, Stephen wonders how fast he could run if he really tried. 

“It could be,” Stephen hums. “It depends on what they’re trying to bring about. But…”

“But?” Peter prompts.

Stephen can only shake his head. “Power is a weapon, but only with intent does it make good people into monsters.”

It’s silent, then, but for the sound of three sets of feet. They slip into the wider halls on the ground floor of the castle, where Loki and Peter look far less out of place and Stephen is more versed with the layout. The crested drapes are drawn tight against the glaring afternoon sun in an attempt to keep the castle cool. Unaware of the disturbance plaguing their royalty, the court and the servants have begun to prepare the fourth night of the Dynasty Celebration. It's colorful. The day of flowering, Stephen remembers. 

"Where's Tony?" he asks, glancing to his companions. "I have to… check a theory, but we should see if he's found anything first."

"I'm not sure where he ended up?" Peter shrugs. "He said he was gonna find the king and queen. And what theory are you checking? Can we help?”

Stephen slows his steps slightly, looking behind him at the eager heir and the sardonic Asgardian that trail him as if he knows what he’s doing. He honestly has no clue where they got that impression. 

“It’s just a suspicion. And I don’t need help,” Stephen says. After a moment, he adds on afterthought, “thank you, though.”

“Sure.”

The three of them head north, peering into halls and doorways as they go. The decoration of the Celebration comes together around them. There’s no sign of Tony, however, so they spread in concentric circles toward the edges of the castle. Before long, Peter takes the lead, naturally more comfortable in his home than either of the guests. He’s still consciously slowing his steps so Stephen and Loki can keep up. 

Letting his mind wander to the beat of their steps, Stephen watches the edges and engravings of the ancient architecture. He knows the date of the castle’s completion, a little less than 450 years ago, though most would consider the information lost to history. Whatever that means. 

Stephen wonders if he could be at home here. If the low archways and high ceilings and bronze gaslights could ever be something comfortable and familiar. Kamar-Taj is nothing like this place, but when Stephen first settled in within its walls, it was just as alien as the castle is now. Growing roots just took time. 

Time, and maybe a sliver of promise.

Stephen wonders what he might promise for the chance to stay here. As he runs after the trail of the prince he can’t stop thinking about, he wonders what he wouldn’t. 

Peter pauses at the meeting of two hallways, catching his breath. As the boy considers whether to take them north or south, Stephen fiddles with the Eye beneath his shirt. The chain, pressing into his neck after so long under the pressure of his collar, itches. The metal is warm when he adjusts it.

Loki notices the motion. “So you are a Revisionist,” he says. 

Abruptly, Stephen remembers the story he told these two when he met them properly. “I assume Tony told you.”

“Well, he told Peter,” Loki says, baring his teeth in a grin. “I overheard by virtue of my being where I wasn’t supposed to be by total happenstance.”

Stephen rolls his eyes. “Fantastic. It’s great to know the entire castle knows my identity.”

“Relax,” Loki purrs. “I haven’t told anyone.”

“I trust you exactly three feet less than I can throw you,” Stephen tells him flatly. “But thanks.”

Loki chuckles. He gives Peter a grin when the boy glances back to look at them before beckoning them into the north hallway. They walk, this time, distracted by conversation. 

“I assume you were trained at Kamar-Taj?” Loki asks. 

Stephen nods. “And you weren’t trained at all?”

“Beyond what I learned myself, no,” Loki says without shame. “Eyes are exceptionally rare beyond Avelshian borders, even more so than within.”

“Usually those from other nations cross over to come to Kamar-Taj.” Stephen glances at the dark amulet swinging from Loki’s neck, unhidden and unopened. “Why didn’t you?”

“Politics,” Loki replies.

“Ah.”

“Always making things more complicated, politics is,” Peter contributes. 

“Certainly so,” Loki drawls. “My Eye manifested at an inopportune time; Queen Maria’s separation regulations had gone into effect mere months before, and our realms were bordering on conflict. Odin did not wish to risk our relationship with Avelshi further with something like  _ my life.” _

There’s a touch of bitterness in Loki’s voice. It sounds like the frustration Tony hides each time he speaks about his family, his duties, his sacrifices. Stephen understands.

“My mother was most supportive, however,” Loki admits after another moment. “She is the reason I am versed in the etiquette of the Order, as well as understand proper Opening, Closing, and Transfer rituals.”

Stephen frowns. “You know a Transfer ritual?”

Loki lifts the amulet around his neck, letting it swing between his fingers. He smirks. “Of course. I will not be confined to a single piece of jewelry all my life.”

“You… shift your Eye between amulets.” Stephen’s intrigued; only a few of the Order change the necklaces that house their Eyes. Even then, they don’t do it often. Stephen himself doesn’t have much choice; a prince of Asgard might be able to afford multiple properly forged pendants, but he sure as hell can’t. 

Transfer rituals can be helpful—but they are also dangerous. The proper motions and magic allow Eyes not only to be shifted between objects, but also to be shifted between  _ people.  _ It always takes magic to interact with another person’s Eye, whether to transfer or heal or destroy, and it always leaves signatures.

Like the wound that will never scab over on the back of the Ancient One’s hand.

“I enjoy the convenience of Transfer rituals,” Loki says. 

“I can understand that.”

Loki eyes him. Stephen can feel it on the side of his face as he follows Peter up the corridor, stepping in and out of pools of sunlight. The afternoon air is trapped just a few feet away. Stephen lifts a shaking hand to brush the glass as they pass. 

He’s still reaching out when he almost barrels straight into Obediah Stane. 

Stephen shoots upright, practically teleporting backward to avoid making contact. It takes every shred of self-control he maintains to keep from lifting his hand to cover his left eye. Instead, it curls into the fabric covering his thigh.

“Woah there,” Stane chuckles. He lifts a hand as if to steady Stephen. The Revisionist dodges smoothly. 

“Lord Stane,” Peter says politely, dropping into a bow. 

“Young master Parker,” Stane replies with a smile. It’s as silvery as his eyes. “And Prince Odinson.”

His gaze falls on Stephen, who holds it an instant too long before remembering to bow. The advisor’s expression doesn’t change. Stephen feels the weight of the Eye shut tight against his chest. 

“I recognize you,” Stane says. “You’re that young noble my godson has been spending the Celebration with.”

Peter says, “noble?” at the same moment Stephen blurts, “godson?”

Stane looks between them, seemingly amused. “Of course,” he says smoothly. To Stephen, he adds, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

He extends a hand, an invitation and a challenge. Stephen sees no way to avoid it, and he feels himself tense even as he reaches out a hesitant hand to take Stane’s. Stane doesn’t comment on the scars. But his grip is gentle and careful, and he doesn’t shake long. 

“Stephen Strange,” Stephen introduces himself. He tucks his hands back into his sleeves as soon as Stane has stepped back. 

Stane waits. When Stephen doesn’t add a title, a flicker of confusion passes across his face. Peter steps in, explaining a bit awkwardly, “Strange is a researcher at Shieldeir. He’s on invitation from his collaborating professor.” 

He doesn’t mention what it is Stephen supposedly studies, likely trying to avoid drawing attention to the magic Stephen does  _ actually  _ possess by not connecting him with it at all. But Stephen has a theory to test. He wants to see how Stane reacts, what he assumes, and most importantly, what he wants to know. 

“I study Revisionist history,” Stephen says, keeping his tone polite. 

Stane cocks his head. “Do you?” 

“Yes sir.”

“What brings you to the palace, then?” If Stane is interested in the subject of magic, he keeps it well hidden. Stephen dares a glance at Loki—but the Asgardian still has his Eye tightly closed. He’s as mortal-sighted as Stephen is.

“My professor sponsored me,” Stephen says. “Well, more like forgot about the Celebration altogether and sent me as last-minute damage control.”

“Ha!” Stane laughs a single booming guffaw that sounds like it took all the breath in his lungs. “Well, welcome.”

“Thank you.” Stephen bows. Then he probes again: “I heard about the misconduct this morning. The king and queen seem caught off-balance.”

Stane shrugs. “Well, the timing of a theft is particularly bad around the Dynasty Celebration. Though their Majesties can easily replace stolen valuables, the guests of the palace may not be so lucky.”

Stephen can’t tell if it’s an indirect jab at his supposed status or not—and he hates not being certain. He wonders, if he’d had his Eye closed that day in the library, if he would have seen anything amiss with Stane in the first place. His attitude is impeccably formed. 

But Stephen  _ had  _ had his Eye open. And he can't ignore what the energies had shown in the dust of the books. 

“Understandable,” Stephen says. He shrugs. “I wish them—and you, sir—the best of luck in recovering order.”

Stane nods. “I’m sure all will be smoothed over soon.” 

Smoothed over. Not ‘forgotten’ _ ,  _ not ‘recovered’, not ‘mended’. Stephen keeps his eyes from narrowing by instead twitching one of his fingers back and forth along the inside of his sleeve.

“I’m sure, too,” Peter provides. He seems slightly confused, having likely realized Stephen is attempting  _ something,  _ but not sure what it might be. “The knights are already at work.”

“Yes, they’re eager for something to do,” Stane chuckles. “Even if it is put far too much effort into finding and dealing with a simple jewelry thief.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Loki purrs. He sounds amused. “A thief who managed to creep so near the king? Who took but a crown this time, but who might take a life next? One might even suspect it wasn’t a thief at all.”

Stephen manages  _ not  _ to snap his gaze to Loki. The Frost Prince speaks with the sort of threatening pointedness, as if to say he knows more than he should, as if to make himself a suspect—anyone would suspect him, if they didn’t know better.

… Do they know better?

He does look at Loki then, a coiled warrior with the power of an Eye hanging untrained around his neck. Without the Order, he must have never taken Oaths. Loki had said he couldn’t jump—but what reason did he have to tell the truth? By nature of the Communal Timeline, if Loki was careful, no one would ever know what he could or couldn’t do. 

Loki looks back at him, gaze even. One side of his mouth quirks up into a smirk. 

Behind him, Peter rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t be so dramatic, Loki,” the boy says. Loki turns away from Stephen, and the look he gives Peter is amused and fond. 

Could he fake that, too? Stephen wonders. Is this friendship Tony told him has saved lives and stopped wars something that could be twisted?

Peter smiles at Loki. It reaches his eyes. 

_ No,  _ Stephen decides. 

He looks back to Stane, who seems utterly unruffled by Loki’s attitude. Perhaps it’s just another one of the quirks of this place that the castle inhabitants have long since grown used to, and Stephen’s still fumbling blindly to catch onto. 

“Indeed,” Stane says. “But if it’s a question of the king and queen’s safety, I am certain there is no reason for concern.”

Loki glances at him and sneers. Stephen cocks his head, asking, “what makes you say that?”

Stane lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “I don’t think they make the targets in this castle.”

Stephen’s fingers tangle in the cuff of his sleeve. Stane’s ice-blue eyes are even, and he keeps talking before Stephen can seize the subject.

“It’s no matter, however. The Celebration will continue with appropriate measures. Everyone is here on official invitation, after all, and it isn’t easy to procure one.”

“Dull,” Loki contributes. Stephen agrees; his own lack of invitation doesn’t bother him. No one questions the crown prince. 

Stane snorts a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find your way around it.”

“You don’t seem worried,” Stephen says.

“I’m not,” Stane replies. He meets Stephen’s gaze, then, and Stephen is suddenly reminded that this man is one of the most powerful individuals in Avelshi. There’s a weight behind his expression that only confidence can give. “Why should I fear a common thief?”

It takes Stephen more effort than it should to remember that there  _ is  _ no common thief. That this man is either lying or actually doesn’t know the truth. 

That somewhere in this castle is a prince who will be dead in a day. 

Stane glances down the hallway, then takes a step around them. “I have court business waiting on me,” he says apologetically. “It was good to meet you, Strange.”

“Properly,” Stephen agrees. 

“Good luck.” Stane inclines his head to each of them, then whisks away down the corridor and toward the East wing of the castle. 

Stephen watches him go, his fingers slowly relaxing where they clench inside his sleeve and his hands slowly sliding back into view in front of him. He has nothing but more unanswered questions, and the ever-increasing impression that Obediah Stane is hiding something. 

But is it what Stephen thinks? Or is it something else, dangerous on an entirely different level?

Is he willing to bet Tony’s life on either?

“Godson?” Stephen finally says, breaking the silence that has grown awkward when he wasn’t paying attention. 

“Yeah,” Peter replies. “Lord Stane is his Highness’s godfather. He and King Stark are really close.”

Family. Stane is as good as family to the Starks, trusted completely. Trusted  _ blindly.  _ Stephen knows exactly what family is capable of. He doesn't want to doubt what should be the bonds that hold Avelshi together, but the royal family is a time bomb, a toxin when it comes to each other. There is only one of them that Stephen can trust. 

He has at least an hour. Whatever business Stane is conducting, it leaves him somewhere Stephen knows. And it means Stephen knows where Stane  _ isn’t.  _

“I have to go,” Stephen says, distracted. 

“What?” Peter reaches out to grab his sleeve. “Where are you going?”

“To check a theory.” He shrugs Peter off, starting off in the direction of the clocktower. “Find Tony— tell him I’ll see him at the Celebration.”

“What theory?”

“Can’t tell you that yet,” Stephen admits. He pauses for just a moment to give Peter an apologetic grin. “And Loki?”

“Yes?” Loki raises an eyebrow.

The joviality drops out of Stephen’s tone. “If you’re lying, I  _ will  _ find out. And if you kill him, nothing in this timeline will save you.”

Then Stephen is gone, leaving silence in his wake. 

{(●)}

Tony can hear the beautiful, if chaotic, ensemble sound of instruments tuning by the time he makes his way back toward the throne room. The sound covers the noise of Loki and Peter’s approach until they’re practically on top of him.

“Hey,” he greets wearily. “Any luck?”

“We found your Revisionist, if that’s what you mean,” Loki says. He sounds disgruntled. 

Tony can’t help but notice that said Revisionist is conspicuously absent. “Did you  _ lose  _ him?”

“He lost us,” Peter sighs. “He said he had to check something, all sudden and stuff. I don’t know, maybe he had an idea? He threatened Loki.”

“It was entertaining,” Loki contributes. 

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Tony snorts. His already vexed thoughts twist a bit. 

He should have gone straight to looking for them, instead of returning to his quarters to prepare for the Celebration. The fourth night has come together around him, even in the few short hours since his conversation with Howard. Tony should already be in the throne room, in all honesty. Howard will have orders and expectations for him. 

Not that Tony has any intention of carrying them out tonight. 

“Stephen says he’ll see you at the Celebration,” continues Peter, lifting two fingers, “and that he thanks you for last night.”

Tony is about two seconds from grinning wide and idiotic, thoughts of the still-heavy conversation with Howard fading, before he catches the glint in Peter’s eye. “Did he really say that.”

“He… implied it?”

Tony rolls his eyes. But he smiles anyway, running a hand along the edge of his jaw. His robes, soft and full and intricate for the fourth night of the Celebration, rustle with the movement. “Thanks,” he says and manages to make it sound sarcastic.

“Whatever you did last night, it worked,” Loki drawls. “The poor man couldn’t even say your name without lighting up like my brother after too much ale.”

Peter gives Tony a look that clearly says Tony isn’t much better. Tony just grins and flips him off. It’s a little weak, battered by frustration and concern, but it holds off Peter’s almost preternatural senses of emotional distress. For the time being, at least. 

“Did you do anything  _ productive?”  _ Tony asks. He is going to be attacked tomorrow night, after all. 

“Uh…”

Loki says, “we spoke about Revision. We encountered your godfather. Stephen informed us that someone is trying to influence fate—and stealing the prophecies was a step in doing so.”

Tony runs his hands through his hair. “The thief isn’t the only one with their hands dirty with the future, or some version of it. Howard is planning  _ something.  _ He wouldn’t tell me anything about the prophecies, wouldn’t even tell me why they’re a secret. Not to mention my mother. Not to mention the  _ actual time magician  _ who’s here to twist a timeline only he can remember.”

Peter whistles lowly. “And here I thought that sparrow we rescued was gonna be the highlight of my week.”

They keep walking, voices quiet in the echoing hallways. The Celebration is nipping at their heels. After so diligently avoiding his father since their earlier conversation, Tony’s walking straight back into his stony attention. But it isn’t as if he can avoid this—the role he plays each evening before the Celebration. 

“What do we know?” Tony says.  _ What do we know? _

“We know someone wants you dead,” Loki provides. 

“We know your father’s keeping his prophecies secret,” Peter says. “And we know someone else has seen them, trying to manipulate fate in some way those prophecies will assist with.”

“But we don’t know if the two are connected,” Tony finishes. “We think they might be, the same person in both cases, but we’re not sure.”

“Pretty much,” Peter says. 

“Damn.” Tony nods to a passing court member, who bows in turn. “That’s… not all that encouraging.”

“Well, we still have our ace,” Peter says.

Tony raises an eyebrow. A suit of armor glints in the early evening light to his left. “Do tell.”

“Me,” Loki says at the same moment Peter declares, “Strange, of course.”

Tony chokes on a laugh as the two glower at each other, putting a hand on the smooth stone to his left for support. Offended, Loki huffs, “am I not skilled in the same magic as he?”

“Except for the bit where he knows how to  _ jump through time.”  _ Peter crosses his arms. Tony watches, both his eyebrows shooting off his face as he bites down on his smile. “You can’t do that.”

“It’s true; I’m not lying about that, despite what Strange seems to think. But I can See deeper,” Loki says, “which is what is truly essential here, as all the jumping has already been  _ done.  _ And I could defend against magic, if the opportunity arose.”

“What does that even  _ mean?”  _ Peter grumbles. 

“The only thing that can fight back against time is  _ time,”  _ Loki responds haughtily. “An Eye is a shield against its forces, even if one can’t use that shield also as a tool.”

“Okay, but in case you didn’t notice, the only person twisting time around here is Revisionist Strange,” Peter says dismissively. “So.”

Loki glowers. “I am certain I am more skilled with a knife than him.”

_ “That  _ I can get behind,” Peter agrees grudgingly. 

“Okay, as entertaining as you two are,” Tony interrupts, stepping forward and waving his hands, “I do have to get to work. The Celebration’s about to start, and the king’s expecting me.”

“Right, yes.” Peter straightens, stepping away from Tony as if remembering the titles and ranks that still hang between them. “Loki and I should get ready too.”

“Tedious,” Loki contributes. 

Tony shoos them, stepping toward the throne room. A quick glance inside confirms he’s not misjudged the time; Howard and Maria are engaging conversation with a group of nobles around the dais, having long since concluded the continuing negotiations elsewhere. Obie stands beside them, smiling slightly. He usually doesn’t speak when the king and queen are present, but he’s contributing now—taking the role Tony would and should be there to fill. 

Tony disengages from the still bickering brothers in arms and bids them a quick, distracted goodbye. He strides into the throne room. Announcing his presence with nothing but his steps and his aura, he makes his way through the beautifully decorated room and steps up into his place on the dais. Tony avoids Howard’s gaze. It prickles icily on the side of his face anyway. 

“Your Highness,” one of the nobles says, stepping away from the others. Tony recognizes some of them. Ambassador Rogers gives him a friendly nod when Tony meets his eyes. The king answers the ambassador’s inquiries of thieving security, expertly hiding the storm in his demeanor and the lies that define each comment. Still sparing in respectful political repartee with Queen Maria is Lord Fury; Tony hears them throwing the names of the border fiefs between them. Occasionally, a dismayed lord or lady who  _ owns  _ one of the border fiefs will chime in with an attempt to distract. 

Tony doesn’t recognize this specific noble, however. He inclines his head in greeting, searching vaguely for a name he lacks hope of finding. 

“We missed you last night,” the court member says. He wears dark gloves, embroidered with delicate patterns. His face only holds a few signs of age, but his hair is almost completely grey. Tony finds himself thinking of the streaks of silver Stephen didn’t bother to hide. 

“Yes,” Tony says, “I was… distracted by an important task. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced?”

“Of course, my apologies.” The noble bows. “I returned from abroad just yesterday. My name is Kai; I’ve come to fill my uncle’s position while he is on leave. Lord Coulson.”

Tony frowns. “I didn’t think Coulson had any family.”

The noble—Lord Kai—shrugs. “Information gets muddled when one’s away so long.”

Tony can’t say that’s an excuse for poor records. If the Order can do it with entire timelines, then the court can manage a few extended family member’s names. It’s not this lord’s fault, however. Tony asks politely, “Where did you travel?”

“No further than the hills of Asgard,” Kai says. “The wolves ran well this season.”

When Tony nods, the lord cocks his head. “Do you hunt, your highness?”

“No.” But Tony thinks of opaline eyes and a wicked smile and it sounds like a lie.

The lord hums anyway. “Well, I’m grateful to arrive in time to secure an invitation. Your Celebration has been stunning.”

The small talk continues, Tony’s distraction just barely kept on its leash. He wants to steal a glance at Howard, but he’s not sure what he would do if he accidentally catches his eye. Lord Kai has no motive beyond the establishment of his name and role. As soon as he’s done that, everything else fades out of Tony’s memory, and he’s almost certain the lord intended it that way. 

_He’ll do well in the court,_ Tony thinks. _He already is._

By the time the nobles have dispersed away through the throne room, the musicians have set up and the servants have already began their rounds. He can’t hear the clocktower through the clamor, but he’s sure it’s sang seven not long ago. Tony straightens his shoulders and looks at Howard.

“Your Majesty,” he says.

Howard just looks at him, and for a moment, Tony remembers viscerally every demand he made and line he crossed this morning. It makes him wince under the king’s gaze. He has the urge to rub at his neck, just to remind himself he still  _ has  _ it. 

Vaguely, he remembers when he used to speak to his father with as much ease and comfort as he did with Maria. He remembers debates, jokes. Interest. 

Why had they become  _ this?  _ What had Tony done, when he was so young he couldn’t remember, to make Howard draw away so completely?

“Where were you last night?” Howard asks. 

“With someone,” Tony replies, and lets the king jump to any conclusion he may. 

The disapproval only strengthens in Howard’s expression. “I expect you here tonight.”

“Understood, sir,” Tony says.  _ ‘Here’  _ doesn’t necessarily indicate he can’t leave and then return. Letter of the law.

Howard sighs and looks away—like he knows what Tony’s thinking, and doesn't care enough to argue. The ache that it leaves is something Tony doesn’t even notice anymore.

“If you find anything, and I mean  _ anything,  _ about the thief from this morning or the prophecies that were taken, I expect to know about it,” Howard says. “Immediately. No matter how inconsequential it may seem.”

Tony thinks about the honest-to-Vishanti Revisionist darting through the castle directly under Howard’s nose and tries not to smirk. “Sure.”

“Anyone who seems suspicious, unusual; anyone without invitation to the Celebration,” the king continues. “There’s more danger here than you know.”

“I  _ would  _ if you would just tell me!” Tony growls. 

Howard doesn’t dignify that with a response. "That is all."

Tony flees. 

{(●)}

The stairs of the clocktower are shadowy, and the dust makes Stephen’s nose itch as he passes beside their arch. Stane’s quarters are the only rooms in this wing, and the few other doors set into the far wall obviously reach into servant’s halls or closets. Stephen waits patiently for the hallway to empty. 

He attracts questioning looks from the few nobles that pass, and the servants’ faces are as unreadable as ever. Stephen nods to each and tries to act like he’s supposed to be here. Pale and tall and strangely dressed, he doesn’t look like he belongs, but he makes up for it in attitude. A few of the guests seem to recognize him. Stephen takes it as a compliment, though he knows its more a virtue of Tony than anything he himself has done. 

He waits, doodling in the dust beneath the lamp sconces with a shaking finger. He draws the looping, disconnected designs of an abstract Eye. With each stroke, he changes his the pattern, until all the dust has fallen away. 

There’s a tension in his shoulders as he waits—a tension in his heart. It’s new, but not as new as he pretends. When he stepped back in time days ago, what awaited him was a puzzle, a mystery, and a mission. What awaits him now is personal; a quest to change the future because he  _ will not  _ let it play out the same way again. He can’t. 

Stephen took a step into a conspiracy he wasn’t prepared for, into a life he didn’t anticipate, and he’s made the mistake of caring. He’s made the mistake of  _ wanting. _

Some part of Stephen wants to live the lie, wishes he  _ was _ just the dedicated university student out of his league—if only for a chance to stay. He wants these days until he can have them no longer. He wants music and verbal sparring and the cool, freeing air beneath autumn constellations. 

This mission was never even meant to be his. And yet, Stephen’s never once cared like this, not in all the hours he’s skipped, not in all the broken worlds he’s undone, not in all the  _ time  _ that remains to him. 

He doesn’t know what to make of it. 

The last of the servants finally disappears around the far hallway, and Stephen shoves himself across the hall before another can take their place. Without witnesses, he risks nothing slipping inside Stane’s empty quarters. The door handle is cold beneath his hands, and it doesn’t budge when he tries to turn it. 

Locked. It hadn’t been locked yesterday. 

The fact only furthers Stephen’s suspicions, but it also impedes him significantly. Stephen kneels carefully beside the door, refusing to give up just yet, and reaches out to examine the small keyhole. His other hand fumbles in his pockets. He’s never carried lockpicks, as they’ve never done him much good, but he hopes he might be able to repurpose something else. 

He’s in the navy, Avelshian tunic Staffmaster Potts had gifted him, which is the only reason anything brushes against his fingers at all. A thick pin jabs at the palm of his hand. Stephen winces, then carefully works it free and transfers it into his right hand. Surveying the hallway once again, Stephen confirms that it’s empty before opening his Eye on the back of his left hand and lifting it to his face.

The energies greet him like they’re happy he’s returned, and it makes Stephen smile slightly. Colorful overlays lie across the hallway, outlining sunbeams and drawing his attention to faraway presences. Stephen pays more attention to the latter. It won’t do to let someone spot him, obviously a Revisionist, breaking into a high noble’s quarters—especially after what happened this morning. 

Every soul in the castle is on the lookout for suspicious activity now. Stephen is too, to be fair, but as he’s also  _ engaging  _ in said suspicious activity, the hubbub is intensely inconvenient. 

His perception is widened now, however, so Stephen’s confident he’ll be able to anticipate any interruption. Eye shining, he turns his attention back to the lock. The tumblers gleam inside. Their signatures in time inform Stephen precisely where they are, and where they should be. 

How hard can it be, really?

The answer becomes apparent when Stephen can’t even hold his fingers steady long enough to shove the pin into the keyhole. He curses under his breath, dropping his left hand from his face to try to hold his right wrist steady—but then he can’t spy the tumblers inside. 

Peering through his Eye again, Stephen tries a second time. This time he drops the pin, the slick metal escaping from his trembling grip. It  _ pings  _ against the terracotta floor tiles. 

“Damn it,” Stephen hisses. He glares down at the pin, Eye narrowing, as if he could melt the useless thing into a puddle by the mere force of his will.

He’s predictably unsuccessful. Sighing, Stephen chases the pin around for an annoyingly long time until he manages to scoop it into his palm, and gives one final lockpicking attempt. He braces the side of his hand on the door and inserts the pin sideways—and he’s at least able to get it in, this time. The angle, however, is utterly hopeless. 

Stephen drops his hand away from the handle with a groan of frustration. The pin falls out not half a moment later, and Stephen flicks the thing pettily across the hallway until it disappears from his non-magical view. 

There are footsteps coming this way; reluctantly, Stephen drops his Eye away from his face and closes it once more. The links of his amulet press into his skin. Time is once again beyond his reach, and Stephen feels cold. 

He pushes himself to his feet and shoves his fingers into his pockets. Beyond that door are answers—and Stephen intends to find them, useless hands be damned. He just… has to find another way in.

Stephen steps back, gaze sweeping along the hallway. The tiles gleam with dust and color, pools of light falling across their worn surfaces. He tracks the sunbeams to their sources. 

Then he breaks into a trot, moving the length of the corridor and ducking into the nearest door. The small room that greets him is dusty and unused but for a few stowed candles and fabrics, but that’s not what Stephen’s after. His eyes snap to the window set into the far wall. Stephen bounds over to it and traces the seams of the glass pane with his fingers. The hinges are rusty, but the latch still works. Stephen flicks it to the side and pushes the window open. 

A gust of wind ruffles the collar of his tunic into disarray. Stephen breathes it in, relishing the slight coolness that speaks of the snow to the east—that speaks of home. Then he leans out, peering down the length of the outer wall. The gleam of the setting sun off glass indicates another window thirty feet away. Reddish fabric, drapes caught by the wind, are blowing from it. Stephen grins. 

He pushes his window all the way open, then carefully folds himself through it, fingers digging determinedly into the curve of the windowsill. His boots find somewhat tenuous traction on the uneven stones outside. Stephen cranes out. It’s really… quite a long way down.

But Stane’s open window isn’t far, and the wind doesn’t buffet him too much. The promise of information is tantalizing, almost painful. 

Stephen swings out into the open air. He digs his fingers into the seams of the stones, toes curling inside his boots as he puts all his weight on the very edges of his limbs. They hold. Stephen’s hands ache, pain skittering almost to his elbows, but he doesn’t dare relax his grip. 

Inch by tense inch, Stephen crawls along the wall toward the window. Dirt wedges itself so deeply beneath his fingernails it stains his cuticles. His hair tickles the sides of his face in the wind, and Stephen keeps his eyes fixed on the glass pane and the whispers of curtains escaping from beneath it. 

He’s just reaching for the secure windowsill when the fingers of his left hand spasm. His abusively tense grip slips without warning, Stephen feels himself lurch backward with the wind. Breath chokes to nothing in his throat. 

Stephen flails desperately, right hand snagging in the loose drapes of Stane’s window. For a brief instant, he’s swinging like a pendulum from them. His legs lose connection with the wall entirely. Dragging trails in the dust on the outside of the wall, the toes of his boots burn with friction.

Stephen hears the  _ rip  _ through the vibrations down the taunt curtains. The fabric tears free, and Stephen moves on instinct. He lets go completely. 

There’s a terrifying moment of free-fall before his hands  _ slam  _ into the windowsill. Stephen scrabbles at it, hanging from his fingers alone. They scream from the stretching pressure, and Stephen grits his teeth. His breathing comes hard and fast, adrenaline fueling the beating of his heart. 

Slowly, he hauls himself up to the window. Stephen tumbles inside in a heap, the torn drape still tangled around his right elbow. 

“Holy shit,” he groans. “Never,  _ ever  _ doing that again.”

Pressing his aching hands against his chest, Stephen levers himself up onto his feet. The drape flutters down to pool at his feet, and he winces. That’s going to be hard to cover up…

As his breathing slows to a normal rate once again, Stephen looks around the space he’s burst into. Stane’s rooms are mostly how he remembers: uncomfortably garish and obnoxiously luscious. Gathering up the torn fabric, Stephen hangs it as best he can back over the curtain rod above the window and steps out into the space.

He remembers the path to the study, and makes a beeline for the desk. The books he’d snooped at the day before are still there, stacked in one corner. Papers and letters are left slightly more disarrayed. Stephen trusts his memory that far, and he starts to leaf through the contents of the desk. He’s not sure precisely what he’s looking for, but he’s certain he’ll know it when he sees it. 

As he searches, Stephen’s thoughts wander. He entertains the possibility that Stane truly is the man who plans to murder Tony tomorrow night. Stephen wonders what he’d do if he found proof—how he’d stop things, how he’d rewrite them. 

More terrifying, however, is the idea that Stane  _ isn’t  _ who he’s looking for. That Stephen’s on the wrong track entirely, and will end up as grounded and useless and unknowing as he’d been when the Ancient One was attacked. 

Of course, being  _ too late  _ isn’t exactly an option for a Revisionist. But if Tony dies tomorrow— _ if you fail to save him,  _ Stephen’s mind whispers—Stephen’s jump back in time to try again would rewrite the prince’s memories of Stephen completely. If he has to repeat these days, return to stand in front of a Tony who didn’t know him, had never met him… Well. Just by being there a second time, knowing secrets about Tony he’d never tell a complete stranger, Stephen proved himself undeserving of those secrets. Undeserving of evenings in the library, nights beneath the stars, cooperation that had grown to mean so much to Stephen. 

Undeserving of knowing Tony at all. 

_ So I won’t let that happen,  _ Stephen assures himself.  _ I’ve never failed before; I won’t fail now. I won’t be too late. _

Still, some part of him fears that he already is.

Eventually, Stephen runs out of pages to sort through, finding nothing beyond the negotiations and organizations he’d expect from a kingly advisor. He turns his attention to the books instead. Trailing his shaking fingers over the titles, Stephen tries once again to stretch his mind for a connection, a reason,  _ anything.  _

Revisionist histories and the prince of Avelshi have nothing to do with each other. What possible reason does Stane have to study these books—and then murder Tony Stark? What essential stretch of information has Stephen yet to find, or yet to properly connect? 

The closest thing Tony has to a connection with the Order is Stephen himself, and, if he stretches, the opinions of Maria Stark. So what would lead Stane to action? 

Stephen frowns, his search growing a little more aggressive. A little too aggressive. Shaking fingers knock a tome onto the floor, and it flops open to a bookmarked page with a  _ snap  _ that makes Stephen wince in sympathy for the book’s spine. Stephen kneels aside it. Closing the book carefully, Stephen goes to return to its place—but not before the bookmark flutters out of place and lands atop Stephen’s foot. 

It’s not a bookmark. It’s a tri-folded paper, and it takes Stephen a moment to recognize the design stamped onto it upside down. The Stark crest. 

Stephen abandons the book on the edge of the desk, swiping up the paper. The edges are worn, and the creases have made the parchment flimsy. Stephen lets it fall open on his palm. 

It’s immediately obvious that this is not a Revisionist record; the sentences are shorter, and the wording is far more precise. It’s always been almost a joke in Kamar-Taj that the Ancient One writes with the intention to confuse, not communicate. The paper in Stephen’s hands is a political document, signed at the bottom by the hand of the king and queen—and beneath it, by Stane as well.

Stephen reads it over. Then he reads it again.

It’s procedure. Specifically, it’s the procedure governing the succession of the castle powers after relevant individuals have died. 

Underlined halfway down are the words  _ ‘duties of the crown prince succeed to head advisor upon civil agreement that the former is rendered unable to complete them.’ _

Well, shit. 

Stephen looks back at the desk, at the information spread across it, leaping some chasm of connection Stephen hasn’t put together yet. The paper feels hot in his hands. Stane has motive perhaps, but Stephen can’t shake the feeling that he’s  _ missing  _ something—something the thief from this morning is keeping hidden. 

He has to find those prophecies. If Stane has them, stowed in his quarters somewhere, he’d have to be an idiot to leave them out in the open. Stephen reaches for the first drawer set into the base of the desk—

And the clocktower above begins to chime eight o’clock _. _

Stephen’s hands recoil as if burned. Had he really been here that long? He was supposed to be far from here when Stane inevitably returned, deep in the cover of the Celebration. He’d promised he’d be far from here. 

Stephen stuffs the paper hurriedly into his robes and hauls ass. Stane’s bolted door comes unlocked easily from the inside, and Stephen flicks it open and keeps his hand cautiously on the door handle. Then he opens his Eye, checking the hallway beyond for the unmistakable patterns of humans. With the fourth night of the Celebration now officially underway, few still wander in the upper floors, but Stephen can’t afford to assume. 

Confirming he's unseen, Stephen closes his Eye and slips out of Stane’s rooms. The door closes behind him with barely a whisper.

Shaking out his hands in a futile attempt to relieve some of the ache, Stephen makes his way toward the great hall.

Tony is waiting for him, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot just keeps on thickening, doesn't it? 
> 
> Hope you liked. <3


	8. The Fourth Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK DIDJA MISS ME??? Ha! The chaos continues with chapter eight, featuring more exploration of the mechanics of Revision, a little experimentation, some lessons and questions and answers, and everyone's favorite library. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Lingering in the shadow of the stairway, the place that has become the unspoken rendezvous of their mission, Tony scans the crowd for signs of Stephen Strange. 

The fourth Celebration day, the day of flowering, is colorful and bright. The wine smells sweet, and the costumes are sharp and energetic. The great hall is draped in pastel and green. Musicians weave ongoing variations of the same lovely style, inviting interchanging dances from the nobles and guests crowding the floor. It’s beautiful, but Tony can only summon a mild irritation—with all the busy sights, it’s difficult to pick out any single face.

He shifts his weight between his feet in an unconscious fidget as the hour crawls by. Peter and Loki have yet to seek him out, no doubt entertaining themselves with treasonous chaos somewhere undefined. Part of Tony itches to dance, to staunch the movement of his thoughts through the movement of his body. 

Because his thoughts  _ are  _ racing—tumbling over each other as if in competition. They’re colored dark with Tony’s emotions. His father’s words swirl on repeat, and the way the morning had turned his world on its head makes the Celebration seem less festive and more imprisoning. Tony’s tense. Every few moments he gives into the urge to look over his shoulder, unable to shake the sense that he’s being watched. 

He’s always being watched, of course. 

“Sorry I’m late.”

_ “Shit!”  _ Tony jumps approximately eight feet into the air, stumbling sideways. His hand shoots instantly to the sword at his hip. 

“Woah, woah.” Stephen grins a little, raising his hands in reassurance. They’re scraped on the palms and fingers. “Just me, your Highness.”

Tony glares at him exaggeratedly, pressing a hand to his chest. “You gave me a  _ heart attack,  _ Strange. Don’t go sneaking up on people like that.”

“I wasn’t  _ sneaking,”  _ Stephen says. “You just weren’t paying attention.”

“Can you blame me?” Tony grumbles. He doesn’t want to admit how relieved he is that Stephen’s standing in front of him, looking mostly fine—he hadn’t realized just how worried he’d been about the asshole sorcerer until he had no reason to be. “What happened to your hands?”

Stephen frowns, then glances down at the digits. He smiles guiltily. “I may have, ah, spent a little time climbing the castle walls.”

“You did  _ what?” _

“I mean, it wasn’t like I could pick the lock.”

“You were trying to—”

Stephen cuts him off with a laugh. “I was busy today. From what Loki and Peter told me, so were you.”

Tony rubs the back of his neck, trying to quell the prickling of anxiety there. “Yeah.”

“What did your father say? Did you figure out who—besides me, of course—was sneaking around this morning?” 

Tony shakes his head, looking around the crowded room and the doors thrown wide to the throne room and the courtyard. There are so many people. His skin crawls like he can feel each of their conversations individually and simultaneously, like the constant distraction of the music is lighting them all aflame. The lights are too bright, the colors too intense, his thoughts too fast.  _ No,  _ he didn’t figure it out, he wasn’t told anything, he doesn’t know  _ shit—  _

“Not here,” Tony says, his voice too flat. 

Stephen nods once. “Where do you need to be?”

“Not here,” Tony repeats. “Just—the library?”

“Okay,” Stephen says. He takes Tony’s wrist, his grip gentle and grounding, and leads the way. 

They don’t run this time, not like before. They just leave, their steps matching the rhythm of the other’s, and don’t look back. Climbing the stairs to the mezzanine level, they slip out of the great hall and onto the second floor of the castle. As soon as the relative darkness swallows Tony, that prickling of a watcher vanishes. The fiery sensation of noise is doused. 

“Vishanti,” Tony mumbles. He extricates his wrist from Stephen’s hold so he can rub at his face with both hands. “It’s good to see you.”

He doesn’t need to be watching to see Stephen smile. “It’s good to see you too. It’s been one hell of a day.”

“You can say  _ that  _ again,” Tony says. He follows, for once, as Stephen leads the way through the castle toward the empty wing where the library is nestled. Three nights and the Revisionist already seems confident of the way. Tony lets the sights around him blur together, focusing on his footsteps as he tries to wrangle his thoughts into some semblance of order. 

It doesn’t take them long to reach the library, though the journey feels timeless. Stephen’s so quiet Tony keeps checking to make sure he hasn’t dematerialized. The halls are lit only by lantern fire, and the moon is still low in the sky, the first night of its waxing cycle. Tony can still hear that one, stubborn fiddle—and it makes him smile.

Stephen cracks open one of the library doors, checks inside, then opens it for Tony with an exaggerated bow. Tony kicks his ankle for good measure. The door slides shut behind them to seal off the sounds of their breathing and the huff of Stephen’s laugh.

Just as beautiful as always, the winged motif of the library casts feathery shadows around them. They make Stephen’s eyes glint like prisms—amber-green instead of the silvery blue they’d reflected under the stars. Tony wants to pick apart each shade and hue until he can name them all.

“Come on,” Stephen says, and they duck through the comfortably lit library. Tony makes a split second decision to scale the spiraled staircase and walk atop the skeletal bridges that use the shelves as supports. Warm metal meets his fingers as he drags them over the banisters. There are eyes carved into them, but they bare no judgement when they focus on Tony, no expectation. 

Eventually, Tony stands at rest where the pathways widen into a single platform. There are benches wrought into the railings, and they creak when Tony sits down. 

“This place gets more amazing every time I come here,” Stephen says. He doesn’t sit, instead leaning over to look over the lower floor and shelves beneath. 

“You haven't been here very long," Tony points out. 

Has he really only known the young man such a short time? He feels more comfortable around him than he has around anyone in a very long time—and that’s either wonderful or a very sad commentary on his life. Tony snorts a laugh. “It's not much time to get used to the castle library.”

“Not much time to get used to anything,” Stephen agrees. He shoots Tony a smirk. “Some things I don’t think I’ll ever get used to.”

“I’ll pretend that’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

“Uh-huh.” Tony rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I’ve known me twenty-eight years and I haven’t gotten used to it.”

He wonders if he’ll have another year. He wonders if he’ll have another  _ day— _ if he’ll make it past tomorrow. The smile falls off his face, and he sticks his chin into his palm and sighs. 

“I don’t know—” He takes a breath. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know who stole from my family this morning. I don’t know if they’re still around. I don’t know what they want, and I don’t know if it has anything to do with me.”

Stephen turns around to watch him, all his weight cascading in a single line down one side of his long form. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the prophecies,” Tony finds himself saying. “I lied to get you to tell me about them, and I’m—”

“It’s fine,” Stephen says, waving a dismissive hand.

Tony blinks. “It is?”

“Of course.” Stephen tugs offhandedly at the amulet’s chain around his neck, disturbing the awkwardly folded collar of his robes. “You have temporal secrets you have to manage. I don’t expect to be an exception to your responsibilities. Besides, the Order has its own secrets, and so do I.”

Tony nods, one of the many weights easing off his shoulders.

“That being said,” Stephen continues, “I need to know anything—and I mean  _ anything— _ that might help me save your life. Your Highness,” he adds, as if on afterthought. 

Tony chuckles. “Understood.”

“So, then. You truly don’t know anything?” 

Tony nods. “I spent this morning seeking everything I could, but…” He winces at the memory of the ice in Howard’s gaze. “I wasn’t welcome to any explanation. But I know the prophecy is bad. It, and the actions Howard's taking because of it, are what's lead to the regulations. The mistrust of the Order. Whatever is in that document… it defines your culture to my mother, and that definition is far from good.”

Stephen hums. In one smooth movement, he lifts himself up and perches on the top of the railing, crossing his elbows over his knees. “I don’t like this,” he says. “All these people trying to manipulate time.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You? You don’t like that?”

Stephen rolls his eyes. “A Revisionist has rules,” he says. “And yes, fine, I don’t like not  _ knowing  _ how others are driving time.”

“Manipulating the future without an Eye,” Tony says.  _ Isn’t that what normal people do every day? _

“Manipulating fate,” Stephen agrees. “King Howard is keeping a secret because he knows sharing the information of the prophecies will reveal something he doesn’t want revealed. It’s the same as spy work. The same general espionage that drives the most unsavory aspects of politics, and usually I’d have no issue with it. I’d ignore it.”

“But?” Tony prompts.

“But your life is in danger,” Stephen says simply. “And I can’t ignore that.”

Tony nods, looking down at his hands. He runs his tongue over dry lips, thinking about the sense of unease he’d felt all day, the true realization that he’s not safe in his own home. That maybe he never was. 

“So you think they’re connected, then? The prophecies and whatever it is that leads to my death?”

“The thief, the prophecies, and your murder,” Stephen says, voice low in the silent library. 

“But how?” Tony huffs. “I know nothing about prophecies! And sure, I’m the crown prince, but there’s been no sign of any political plots against me. No nation is striving for war. No baron is that drastically unhappy with their prospects. Killing me wouldn’t leave anyone more power—it would just leave Howard and Maria slamming down on their own influence.”

Stephen’s hands twitch. 

Tony pauses mid-thought, watching him. Stephen meets his eyes evenly, and there’s a slight twist to his expression that has Tony’s eyebrow raising. “What is it?”

“Killing you… it would leave more power. More power for one specific person.”

“You have a theory.”

“I have… a very vague suspicion,” Stephen allows. “And you’re not going to like it.”

“News flash, Stephen; I don’t like any of this!”

Stephen sighs, wrapping one ankle around the bars of the railing to secure his seat as he raises one hand to fish inside his robes. The faraway sounds of the Celebration curl through the slightly cracked window to their left. Tony leans forward, brows drawing low. Fishing out a tri-folded sheet of parchment from the sleeve of his navy robes, Stephen meets Tony’s eyes, mouth drawn into a grim line.

“I snuck into Obediah Stane’s rooms today,” Stephen says. 

Tony cocks his head.

“And I found this.”

Stephen extends his arm, and Tony has to stand to reach the paper clutched in it. It’s thin from repeated use and warm from where its been tucked into Stephen’s clothes. As soon as he unfolds it, Tony recognizes the document. 

All at once, he understands what Stephen’s implying.

And he bursts out laughing.

“You think  _ Obediah  _ is going to murder me?” Tony snorts, passing the paper back to a baffled Stephen with a hand shaking from mirth. “You think my  _ godfather  _ is going to stab me in the gut tomorrow night.”

“I said it was a very vague suspicion.”

“It’s idiotic.”

“I also said you weren’t going to like it.”

“It’s  _ idiotic,  _ Stephen.”

Stephen tucks the document back into his robes, face revealing nothing. His eyes are rigid when they turn back to Tony. “You didn’t see what I did.”

“What  _ did  _ you see?”

“Every Revisionist book in the library, consolidated to his office without reason. I saw motive for your death, written down, underlined, and used as a bookmark. I Saw foul character and secretive intent.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, shaking his head. Ridiculous. “You don’t like him, you mean.”

“That too. But I can’t ignore what I Saw.”

“And I’ve been around him for years! The man helped raise me—I assure you I’ve seen far more than ‘secretive intent’.”  
Stephen shakes his head. “You’re not understanding. I _Saw_ it.” Then he raises his left hand and sets it over his eye, the back of his palm empty but the point clear all the same.

Tony’s amusement drains away like the floor has just crumpled beneath his feet. “You…oh.”

“It’s… not definitive,” Stephen says, looking away. He looks awkward all of a sudden, and Tony only observes unconsciously. Stephen continues, “I don’t have proof. I didn’t find the stolen prophecies—or at least, I haven’t. And I still don’t understand how the prophecies relate to any of this.”

Tony opens his mouth, then closes it again. Silence stretches. Stephen steals a glance at Tony that the prince hardly notices. 

“You think Obediah is going to murder me tomorrow night,” Tony repeats, and this time, his voice is flat.

“I…” Stephen takes a breath. “Yes.” 

Tony closes his eyes.

The trust Howard and Maria have for their advisor keeps the kingdom from collapsing. Obediah Stane drives commerce to every height, directs conversations to pointed, beneficial ends, and provides an impartial voice when Tony needs it. He’s an enabler and a safety net. Maybe he isn’t exactly a friend—but he’s a figure who is trusted. And trust doesn’t come easily in the court. 

How much is Tony’s trust worth?

“Not without proof,” Tony says, opening his eyes. 

Stephen stands without a sound. The lantern light makes his navy robes look black, as dark and permanent as ink. 

“You won’t act without proof.” Tony looks up at him. He feels his expression harden into the calm power of a royal. “That’s an order.”

Stephen’s gaze doesn’t so much as flicker. “I have my orders,” he says.

“Stephen.”

“This is your  _ life,  _ Tony!” What had been an icy tone fractures with the words. “No, I won’t do anything to harm Stane or, indirectly, Avelshi unless it’s absolutely necessary, but I’m not going to let you die. I’m—I can’t.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to be  _ mindful,  _ for Vishanti’s sake!”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?” Stephen demands. “What do you think I’m  _ here  _ for? All I’m doing is trying to understand what’s going on, alright? That’s  _ all  _ I’m doing.”

The tension twangs and breaks, and Tony presses his face into his hands. “I know,” he mumbles. “Just—shit.”

Stephen doesn’t answer, but Tony sees him shift through the gaps in his fingers. The Revisionist sways forward as if he wants to get closer but can’t quite convince himself to move. Tony’s maroon and silver clothes suddenly feel unbearably heavy, and his emotions make his head itch.

_ “Damn it.”  _ Tony digs the heels of his palms into his eye sockets until he sees sparks. They loop and curl until they look like fire, until they look like Eyes. 

He can still hear that fiddle, getting louder, faster, higher. Or maybe it’s just his thoughts, scarabs scratching at the inside of his skull. Howard’s terse words slam into the back of his mind like forge hammers on a blade. The twisted, mournful expression of his mother keeping a secret she wanted nothing more than to reveal flashes in Tony’s shrouded vision. He remembers Stephen, standing off-balance at the edges of the Celebration and not even recognizing the prince he was sent here to save. Tony thinks about Obediah. He thinks about Revisionists, and he wonders if his mother is right. If all this is really worth hating.

He thinks, so fast and so slow, and it paints the inside of his mind with panic. His kingdom is in danger, his fate is under attack, and he doesn’t know what to  _ do.  _ What can he do? What power does he have when  _ no one will even tell him the truth? _

He swears he can feel every divot and shred of grime on his hands. He’s certain he can taste the residue of his last meal. And he knows can hear the fiddle, screeching, screeching,  _ screaming— _

There’s a hand on his shoulder, light and firm and trembling. Tony’s thoughts slide sideways into it.

“Teach me to dance,” Stephen says, with only the slightest touch of hesitation.

Tony looks up, blinking away those blood-colored sparks. “I thought you were busy. Some murder to solve or suchlike,” he jokes weakly.

Stephen grabs his hand and sweeps to his feet. As the rest of his body is in fact connected to his arm, Tony’s forced to follow. Stephen smirks over his shoulder as he leads them into the middle of the platform. He says, “And I seem to remember a royal order to  _ take an hour.  _ How about I cash it in now?”

“I know what you’re doing,” Tony says, glaring at the man.

Stephen cocks his head snidely. “Is it working?”

_ Asshole.  _ But Tony can breathe again, and for that, it means everything. The scarred hand in his is cool. Tony can feel the small scabs from Stephen's climb earlier this afternoon, and he lightly runs his thumb across them. The faraway music weaves in from the open window. It will do nicely. 

"I'll teach you," Tony allows, "but on one condition."

Stephen raises an eyebrow. "Always strings attached with you."

Tony ignores him, continuing, "tomorrow night, after all this is over, you dance with me in the great hall."

The offer goes beyond just tomorrow, and they both know it. Stephen watches Tony, for the barest hint of a heartbeat. And Tony can see it—the precise instant Stephen decides what he wants. What he's willing to want, and what he's willing to risk. 

"Deal."

{(●)}

Stephen doesn’t wonder what he’s doing.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, knows the control he’s letting slide away so obviously as he stands with Tony’s hand in his. He knows the announcement he’s making, the admission. Consequences flash like blue jays in the back of his mind, and the doubts that have kept him an arm’s length away these nights join their forces. Stephen knows, and he decides it’s worth it.

“Deal.”

Tony Stark smiles, and all it’s worth it. Worth  _ him,  _ without question.

Stephen’s always aimed high and fallen fast. But when falling feels like flying, he cannot lose. Maybe he only has one more night, a few brief hours to savor the plummet, but he thinks it’s all the more reason to treasure what he has. He’s a Revisionist. Tony is the prince of Avelshi. Maybe Stephen’s destined to never dance with him again, called back to the Far Reaches and the needs of the Communal Timeline, but maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ it doesn’t have to be that way.

He’s here to change destiny anyway. 

Prince Tony watches Stephen and says nothing. He simply looks, for what feels like a very long time, but what Stephen knows objectively is only a few moments. 

“How do I stand?” Stephen says, watching him back.

Tony clears his throat. “Right,” he says, reaching up to take Stephen’s other hand. He pulls at him, and Stephen allows himself to be molded. The stance is somewhat natural, though Stephen feels himself twitch into something more martial each time he tries to move through it. 

“Relax,” Tony informs him with a bit of a grin. “You’re on a dance floor, not a battleground.”

“A different kind of battleground,” Stephen corrects. 

“Stop whining and dance.”

Stephen does, focusing wholly on Tony as he carefully guides him through steps and stances and turns, half-speed against the music playing outside. “This is your basic form for joined dances,” he says. They move again, changing postures. “And this is for interchanging dances, with more than one partner. But unless you have some sort magical Eye ability that lets you clone yourself or other people, we’ll stick with the former.”

“Sure.”

“Great.” Tony takes his fingers, showing where they should rest on shoulders, hips, or hands. Stephen feels them shaking more, caught in his own personal whirlwind. Tony’s careful. It makes them shake harder.

Tony leads Stephen in loops around the library platform, growing progressively faster as Stephen starts to gain confidence. They stay simple—even as quick a learner as Stephen is, it takes longer than half an hour to match the skill of a cultivated student of the throne. Tony moves with grace, ease, and practiced experience. Stephen concentrates, tongue caught between his teeth, and tries to match him.

Tony pushes him faster. Stephen holds on by the tips of his fingers to what he remembers and keeps up. They weave around each other. They duck and turn, and the dust of the library scuffs in patterns like writing in their wake. Heart beating in his throat, Stephen can barely keep himself tethered to the ground.

Tony never takes his eyes off Stephen’s face. It’s unfair, how easy he makes it look, when Stephen’s hanging onto every position he can remember and every correction Tony’s made so far. Tony looks like he’s racing the wind, while Stephen feels like he’s going through battle poses.

And still, Tony pushes him further. 

When Stephen’s only barely avoiding stumbling, and his mindset is edging from determination to embarrassment, Tony laughs. He leans in closer. His eyes spark with mischief as the fiddle plays to the beat of their steps.

“So stubborn,” he says. “Let go.”

“What?”

“Let go,” Tony repeats. “You’re pretending to be a nobleman, a university student. But your not a politician, Stephen. You’re a sorcerer. You can stop pretending, now.”

_ You don’t know me when I’m not pretending. You might not want me when I’m not pretending.  _

But Stephen’s thoughts whisper of a starry night and intertwined hands and shared secrets, and he knows otherwise.

“I don’t understand,” Stephen says.

Tony’s smile is vexatious and amused and so, so beautiful. “I could dance with anyone who knows the basic steps,” he chuckles. “I don’t want to dance with anyone; I want to dance with  _ you.  _ Let go.”

Stephen does. 

One of his hands slides out of Tony’s as the other tightens. One of his feet skates out of proper form. His movements change, curious and questioning, and he’s not thinking about them anymore, not controlling them. The prince is right; he’s not a politician. He doesn’t move with the elegance of royalty, the beauty of the earth’s consistency. He moves like snow on mountain winds and the mischievous flow of time. 

No longer following Tony in the careful give-and-take of ballroom style, Stephen swings them wide. Tony gives into momentum hungrily. He’s waiting to see what Stephen will do, where Stephen will take him.

They twist and spin and duck around each other, the platform giving way to the bridges giving way to the stairs. They’re always connected, but it isn’t only through their hands. Shoulders brush as Stephen spins one hand toward his chest. His palm skims Tony’s neck and collar before the prince catches it with his own. They aren’t following the music so much as anticipating it. 

They’re between floors now, in limbo. Tony’s one step above Stephen, just noticeably taller as they lead and catch and dare each other. He’s grinning. There’s an individuality to his stance, his pursuit. Stephen mirrors him, just as he has begun to mirror Stephen. 

Somewhere in the middle, they meet. Perhaps it isn’t a beautiful dance, nothing an audience would pay to see, but it is unmistakably, unrepeatably theirs. It belongs to no one else. Stephen feels blind, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t need to see time to spellcast with what’s around him. 

They dance, and the musicians weave their backdrop. They dance, and songs never seem to end, never seem to begin. They dance, and the night slips by in the moments they stop to rest and the moments they share the pace of their movements.

It’s… intimate, Stephen thinks. Like shared tea in front of a fireplace. Like ducking under the same furs during a blizzard. It’s intimate, dancing in a room where no one can see.

“Does it count as teaching me,” Stephen asks, some unimportant time later, “if I’m ignoring all your lessons?”

“Not what the lessons are about, idiot,” Tony tells him. “There’s more to dancing than technique. I’m teaching you the most important parts.”

Stephen scoffs. Tony twirls beneath his arm, spotting Stephen’s face so he can keep making self-satisfied eye contact. Containing the urge to roll his eyes, Stephen leads them both in a weave through the bookshelves. 

“Are you sure you want me embarrassing you in front of half the Avelshian population tomorrow night?” Stephen asks. 

“And the night after that,” Tony says.

Stephen looks at him. Tony’s grin slips, just for an instant, shining with a nervous edge. 

“I already promised,” Stephen says, and means it. 

They dance, and the library watches them with pleased, comforting eyes hidden in the shadows beneath the lantern sconces and in the spines of the books. They dance, in this place that has become a portal between Stephen’s home and Tony’s. They dance, and it isn’t really dancing. It’s movement, though, and it’s joyful, and there’s no one around to care. 

They only stop when they’re weary and laugh-drunk and sore in the bottoms of their feet. Tony lets Stephen spin out away from his touch. Stephen catches himself on the nearest bookshelf, breathless, heart still hammering. He looks at the books and had the momentary urge to whisper his delight to them. 

How did this happen? How did Stephen let this happen? How did he let this brilliant, loyal,  _ good  _ prince charm his way so deeply into Stephen’s heart? 

The books would have no answers for him. 

“You made it sound like you’d be bad at that,” Tony says accusingly. Stephen turns around, leaning back against the bookshelf so he can face the prince. 

“It’s not my fault you underestimate me,” Stephen shoots back. 

“Oh I’m certain that it is.” Tony points a finger at him. “Some devilish trick of you and your monstrous magic.”

Stephen quirks a rueful smile. His breathing is still evening out. “The art of being inconspicuous  _ would  _ be magic to you.”

“Are you implying I am not  _ most  _ efficient with my flare for the dramatic?”

“I was considering the term ‘ostentatious’.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like ostentatious.”

“I’m warming up to it.” Stephen grins, pushing away from the bookcase. “Besides, I’d be lying if I say I don’t have my own flare.”

Tony snorts. “And here I thought you were only minimally self-aware.”

“I can be minimally self-aware and still know I’m a dramatic bastard.”

That gets him a full-out laugh, and Stephen huffs a chuckle of his own almost involuntarily. Tony looks him up and down with that russet gaze and reaches out. Then he pauses and asks, “can I take your hand?”

Stephen meets him half way, and the prince takes off. A squeak escapes Stephen’s lips as he’s suddenly being towed through the shelves and the wing-shaped shadows that populate the library. Tony follows the sounds of the music to a slightly open window. He pushes it open the rest of the way, and Stephen’s suddenly taking a breath of chill air and watching the wind tussle Tony’s hair and the collar of his robes.

“Needed a little breather,” Tony says. “The dust gets to me sometimes. But I suppose you’re used to it.”

Stephen shrugs, moving to lean against the windowsill. He rests his cheek on the glass pane. “I am. I’ve gathered significant amounts of it myself in the past, but when I first came to Kamar-Taj I spent the whole season sneezing. It drove Wong insane.”

“What, is sneezing against your super special sorcerer Oaths or something?”

Stephen grins. “It might as well be. Wong dislikes chaos in his library, and I was a force of chaos.”

_ “‘Was?’” _

“Shut up.”

Tony laughs, moving over to cross his arms and lean on the windowsill beside Stephen. The stars shadow his eyes and the shape of his facial hair. “So you have a pretty rocky relationship with your boss, then.”

Stephen snorts. “Oh, Wong is  _ not  _ my boss. And we’re friends, though you can _ not  _ tell him I admitted that.”

Tony raises his hands in promise. “Okay, okay, consider my lips sealed.”

“I used to harass the man when I was younger,” Stephen says. “He’s older than me, technically, but I’ve spent more time jumping to the past and the future, so my personal timeline has lasted longer than his.” 

“Weird.” Tony raises an eyebrow.

“Like I said,” Stephen hums, “age doesn’t really matter to the Order.”

“So Wong’s a fellow records-keeper, then,” Tony guesses.

“Yup.” Stephen glances out the window, as if he might be able to see across Avelshi to the mountains of the Far Reaches. 

Where the Ancient One lies unconscious after that unchangeable attack that had rendered her powerless. 

Stephen’s fingers play across the front of his shirt, feeling the lines of his amulet beneath. It’s warm from his body heat and smooth from age. He can’t even remember what it feels like to take it off for longer than a few minutes, to not be keenly aware of its absence. 

Perhaps that’s why the Ancient One still wears— _ would  _ wear—her empty amulet. Perhaps it’s the only comfort she can still keep. 

“Can I see it?” Tony asks, pulling Stephen’s thoughts back to Earth.

“What?” Stephen cocks his head.

“Your Eye,” Tony says. He looks almost embarrassed when he meets Stephen’s gaze, and glances away soon after. “Can you show it to me?”

It’s a bold question. Stephen just smiles.

“Yes.”

{(●)}

Tony’s heartbeat is fast. 

His breath has slowed, the exertion from their dance long since drained out of his limbs, but still his heart thumbs a rapid rhythm in his chest. Stephen’s pulling his amulet from beneath his tunic, head tilted sideways, smooth line of his throat extended. Tony leans on his hands so he doesn’t reach out and touch. 

When the amulet hangs free, Stephen wraps the scarred fingers of his left hand around it. His eyes flicker closed, and Tony leans forward. He’s seen Loki do this before, open his Eye from where it nestled in the safety of jewelry, but something about Stephen’s movements is different. More… precise, perhaps. 

Tony’s eyes go wide when the first line streaks across the back of Stephen’s hand. It draws an arc, perpendicular to his wrist, that quirks in sharply at both ends. Like ink that hasn’t dried, the line shimmers a warm bronze hue. More marks lazily darken the area inside the bronze shape—navy blue, in gentle curves that intersect like inverted circles. One ends in an elegant spiral that rests over the bone of Stephen’s wrist. The Eye is dark and light and bold and soft, rendered in bronze and blue and an emerald so deep it practically glows.

It’s so easy to forget that the man in front of him is a Revisionist. It’s so easy to forget that this sorcerer is the creature Tony’s always been taught is so fundamentally different from him and his people. It’s so easy to pretend. 

Tony can’t pretend now. The pattern blinking on Stephen’s palm is the one that lets him weave beginnings and ends around each other, the gaze that lets him see the very fabric of this world. 

It’s stunning.

“Well damn,” Tony says eloquently.

Stephen covers his left eye with his hand, and the optical illusion of the Eye where a human gaze should be makes his face seem like something out of the dream world. The swirling jades and the static bronze crinkle as Stephen smirks. 

“As impressive as you were hoping?” Stephen drawls, and that expression shows he knows  _ full well.  _

“It’s…” Tony’s hands flicker forward involuntarily. He wants to touch, wants to trace his thumbs across the pattern, across the face behind it. “It’s blasphemous that you had to hide that this whole time.”

Watching him now, Tony can see a glint in Stephen’s expression, a quickness that had been muted before. Tony remembers the first night when Stephen had stared at his surroundings with barely contained frustration. Now, there’s only ease. Whatever Stephen is seeing, whatever is now visible to him, it’s something as natural as breathing. 

This isn’t magic _ ,  _ Tony thinks, not in the way he’d been imagining. This is a fundamental aspect of the man before him. This is a part of Stephen that had been missing, that had been squandered, not simply a piece of jewelry tucked away out of courtesy. Stephen had been lacking a limb just so he wouldn't draw suspicious looks from a world that didn’t trust him. 

This is the part of Stephen that kept him at arms length.

Tony doesn’t mean to. He truly doesn't, but he steps back. Stephen notices—no, he Sees. The smile he gives is understanding. 

“If you still want that dance tomorrow,” he says, “Your father won’t be happy. Nor your mother.”

They won’t be happy, because they’ll  _ know.  _ Stephen won’t hide his Eye if— _ when  _ they stop this murderer, and Tony wouldn’t want him to. 

“I don’t care,” Tony replies honestly, 

Stephen’s still smiling, still with such infuriating knowingness. “You’re lying.”

“Can you tell?”

His Eye blinks, and Stephen raises the corresponding eyebrow. His magic time-travel Eye pattern has a goddamn  _ eyebrow,  _ because of course it does. How could Stephen be expected to convey the proper levels of confident carelessness without it?

“Of course you can,” Tony sighs.

“Does that make you uncomfortable?” The eyebrow is still raised.

Tony snorts. “Well it’s certainly not something I have to deal with every day. But it’s part of you, and you don’t make me uncomfortable, so I guess I’ll be getting used to it.”

The eyebrow lowers. Tony is too focused on the Eye to remember to read the microexpressions that flash across the sorcerer’s face, and he’s left fumbling for Stephen’s reaction. That’s another thing he’ll have to get used to.

Purposefully, pointedly, he hauls his gaze to focus on Stephen’s face. His whole face. Tony makes eye contact like he would with a natural—

He stops that conditioned thought before it starts. There is nothing unnatural here. Tony makes eye contact like he  _ should _ , and Stephen’s lip twitches up again. 

“I’ll find something to tell the king and queen,” Tony says. “I’ll figure it out.”

“I’d appreciate that.” They’re still standing by the window, and the wind almost whips the words away. Stephen’s Eye glows softly, and Tony isn’t sure if it’s the reflection of the moonlight or a light of its own. He has to contain the urge to touch again. Stephen looks amused. 

“Can you read my mind?” Tony demands.

“Nope,” Stephen replies easily. “But I can read the energies that flow around you—that connect to the threads of your fate and the progression of the Communal Timeline. I can read your intentions from them. Your soul.”

His voice lowers at the last—a drawl, almost a purr. Tony bites his tongue  _ very _ hard. 

“What else?” he asks.

“Can I See?” Stephen hums. “Well, the threads of my own timeline, linear where others’ are convoluted. It’s this that guides me in a jump.”

Tony’s curiosity leaps to the front of his mind, lights in his eyes. Stephen must be able to tell, for he laughs. “I’ll answer your questions,” he agrees, “so long as it isn’t revealing Order secrets.”

Tony nods, leaning against the windowsill. He jabs a finger in the direction of Stephen’s Eye. “So when you jump,” he began, “how does it feel?”

Stephen is quiet for a moment, his eyes flickering down and away. “It’s… like having one hand tied down,” he finally says, “and something you need just barely too far away for you to grab it with your other hand. You stretch for it, reach for it with everything you have, brushing it with your fingertips again and again. There’s an eternity of not  _ quite  _ getting a grip, and then you find that last burst of energy and finally secure your fingers around it.” 

Tony didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that. His jaw flops for a couple of breaths. “Oh.”

Stephen smirks. “It’s invigorating. And tiring, of course. All that energy to push yourself through time—it can drain someone, just like any activity.”

“Huh.” Tony rubs his chin with a knuckle and wrinkles his nose. “What would just a few minutes do?”

“What?”

“Yeah,” Tony says. He rubs his hands together, curiosity solidifying into the dedication of an experiment. “Can you show me?” 

Stephen frowns, and his Eye flashes. “You wouldn’t be able to remember. It wouldn’t answer your question, because you never would have had the opportunity to ask.”

“Trust me,” Tony says. “It would. I wouldn’t need to have been curious to understand the answer.”

Raising an eyebrow, Stephen takes a few steps away from the window. “You think so?”

“I’m positive.”

“A mission requires the approval of the Masters before it can be carried out,” Stephen says. His tone sounds like he’s quoting something. Tony remembers the oaths, all of a sudden—but he’s already considered the loopholes.

“You already got permission,” he says. “You’re here, aren’t you? Is jumping within approved missions allowed?” 

_ “Required  _ jumps are.” If Stephen’s trying to look serious, he’s failing. “This is hardly essential to the success of the mission.”

“C’mon, I  _ am  _ your mission!” Tony grins. “What if I ask really really nicely?”

Stephen rolls his eyes—Vishanti, he can actually  _ roll  _ his magic one. Actually, why is Tony even surprised? Of course he can. 

“Fine,” Stephen says. “But only a few minutes back.”

{(●)}

Technically, he shouldn’t be doing this. 

Stephen knew the dangers of stretching the oaths—that’s what had lead Kaecillius astray, what had made Kamar-Taj so feared. The Ancient One had made this clear. Had repeated, the only time she’d ever raised her voice at him, that  _ this  _ was what set them apart from the monsters they must prove they weren’t. 

But that's exactly what Stephen's doing here, isn't it? Even more than that. His magic doesn't make him a monster to Tony. He doesn't have to hide it. 

The prince's soul is as stunning as he'd known it'd be. He'd seen Tony's energies before, if course, but not in person. Not when the prismatic, spider-web fate string was there, not two feet from him. 

Tony watches Stephen eagerly, with a curiosity Stephen knows from himself. It makes Stephen's own energies brighten with his quiet joy at the simple sight. At all the simple sights that make Tony Stark.

He takes another few steps into the library, putting some space between himself and Tony for the jump. Time traveling with others is impossible, and this whole exchange would be erased from the timeline in a few moments anyway, but some ingrained instinct makes Stephen more comfortable with space. Tony, who doesn't know anything else, stays by the window. 

"You aren't going to remember this," Stephen warns again. 

Tony huffs. "Hop to it, magic man! My past self is waiting!"

Rolling his eyes for the second time in as many minutes, Stephen dips into a sarcastic bow. His palm and the skin beneath his left hand are starting to sweat from being pressed up against each other. With his Eye open, he hardly notices. 

Tony’s energies are a storm of excited colors and questioning textures. They aren’t quite colors, not really—they’re simply sensations, perceived through his Eye that Stephen has come to associate with colors. Parts of Tony’s aura remind Stephen of specific colors. Hesitating just one more moment, Stephen lets them swirl in his Gaze, an individual sense all their own. They’re data, data that tells Stephen who Tony is, where he brushes against the timeline, and what shape his soul takes. 

Stephen hopes this won’t be the only night he sees them.

He won’t let it be. 

Focusing on his magic and scrutinizing the area around him, Stephen plucks at the auras around him. They ripple. They warp toward him, pulled invisibility as he pours his energy into drawing them close. The closer they come, the more resistance they pose, and Stephen strains toward the point where they will brake. Time pulls away as Stephen pulls it forward, and for an instant, they’re at a standstill.

Then Stephen narrows his Eye and  _ jumps _ . 

{(●)}

“I’ll find something to tell the king and queen,” Tony says. “I’ll figure it out.”

“I’d appreciate that.” They’re still standing by the window, and the wind almost whips the words away. Stephen’s Eye glows softly, and Tony isn’t sure if it’s the reflection of the moonlight or a light of its own. He has to contain the urge to touch again. Stephen looks amused. 

“Can you read my mind?” Tony demands.

“Nope,” Stephen replies easily. “But I can read the energies that flow around you—that connect to the threads of your fate and the progression of the Communal Timeline. I can read your intentions from them. Your soul.”

His voice lowers at the last—a drawl, almost a purr. Tony bites his tongue  _ very _ hard. 

“What else?” he asks.

“Can I See?” Stephen hums. “Well, the threads of my own timeline, linear where others’ are convoluted. It’s this that—” 

Stephen’s no longer standing in front of Tony. 

Tony straightens like lighting is striking down his spine. The silhouette Stephen had formed against the reflective windowpane, the bristling light of his Eye in contrast to the paleness of his skin, has simply ceased to exist. Tony hadn’t even blinked. Stephen had been there, explaining magic like he might the mathematics of astronomy, and now he’s gone. Like he was never there at all. 

Panic skitters through Tony’s bones. It doesn’t have the chance to sink its teeth in, however, for Tony spies a tall figure when he turns away from the window. It’s Stephen, steadying himself with a stumbling step, standing  _ not at all  _ where he was just an instant before.

His Eye is definitely glowing now. As Tony watches, the power fades, like an ember losing its energy. 

“You jumped,” Tony realizes all at once. The panic is back an instant later. 

His hand flies to his sword, half drawing it as he turns his back to the wall in an attempt to keep as much of the library in his view as he can. There’s no movement in the library—not even the flames of the lanterns dancing. Tony tries to clamp his teeth down on the uncertainty that comes with that. What happened? How far back had Stephen jumped? What had he seen? What was waiting for them?

“What’s wrong?” Tony demanded, his sword heavy in his hand.

“Nothing,” Stephen assured. His words were hasty. “I’m from a few minutes in the future, that’s all.”

“What happened?” Tony’s gaze is still flickering intently around the space. 

“I should  _ not  _ have listened to you,” Stephen groans. “Should have anticipated you freaking out—justifiably so, of course. Look, Tony, it’s fine. You asked me to jump.”

“I did what?” The sword slides back into its sheath by half an inch. 

“You were curious. You asked me to jump back to earlier in the conversation.”

The sword falls the rest of the way. “Oh. Yeah, that sounds like something I would do.”

“Remind me to never take a suggestion you make ever again.” Stephen’s rolls his eyes, and the pattern of his Revisionist gaze changes with the motion. Somehow it seems even  _ more  _ exasperated. Tony grins.

“Unless it has to do with food,” he says.

“Sure.”

“Or engineering principles.” 

“That’s a strong maybe.”

Tony continued, purring, “Or political strategy.”

“You’re on  _ thin ice  _ there, Stark.” 

Tony puts a finger behind his ear. “That title seems to be missing a couple of syllables.”

“Oh,” Stephen drawls, “I must have misplaced them in the  _ useless time jump you suggested.” _

Tony shrugged, his smile softening further as he looks over his shoulder to the open window. That fiddle, so characteristic of his adventures these nights, is still singing away. Tony doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to listen to the instrument after this without remembering…  _ everything.  _ But he doesn’t think he minds. 

Making his way back to the window, Tony lets a spring creep into his step. He tastes magic. He tastes time, and it doesn’t scare him like it perhaps should. In fact, it feels almost magnetic. 

He can see the reflection of Stephen’s Eye in the glass. It’s like a window of its own—a telescope between souls. A gift. How could anyone  _ scorn  _ him for that?

Stephen meets his gaze in the glass. He doesn’t look away when he comes closer. Tony feels like he’s standing at the top of the clocktower, but the ticking gears are his own heartbeat. There’s a glint of gold from the circlet tangled in his hair. Tony can see that, too.

Stephen reaches out and touches it. His long, trembling fingers smooth Tony’s hair around the crown, light and intimate in a way that makes Tony sway toward him. The prince’s hands twitch. He wants… He just  _ wants. _

He speaks, but not the words he wants. “I thought you weren’t allowed to jump without approval from the old wise wizards.”

Stephen smiles, and Tony doesn’t see it so much as he senses it somewhere left of his esophagus. He says, “do I look like someone who blindly follows rules in situations they don’t apply?”

“You’ve been pretty adamant about them so far.”

“You convinced me.”

_ “Did  _ I?” Tony grins impishly, looking up and over his shoulder at the sorcerer standing beside him. “And how did I manage that?”

Stephen fixes him with a piercing green-bronze gaze and says, “the Oaths are to assure I’m not a monster. I didn’t need to prove that to you.”

Tony blinks. Then he smiles. 

Giving into temptation, Tony and wraps an arm around Stephen’s waist. To a relief that Tony would never admit to, the sorcerer leans into him in return. If Tony tilted his head, he could lay it against Stephen’s shoulder. The thought delights him. They stand by the window and watch their reflections in the glass and the stars outside it. Silver and green and red and gold. 

Stephen’s Eye is trained on him when Tony turns his head to look. The line of the sorcerer’s side against his is suddenly not enough. Or maybe not suddenly at all.

“Can I touch?” Tony asks. He lifts his hand between them. He doesn’t know what he means, what he’s referring to, how much longer he can wait.

And Stephen lowers his Eye from his face and laces their fingers together. 

It’s deliberate and indicative, and the implicit trust takes Tony’s breath away. All he would have to do is twitch, and that vulnerable pattern of magic and spirit would be at his mercy. Stephen holds his hand anyway. 

The fiddle stops, and for a moment, time does too. Tony’s smiling. He wonders if Stephen can See all the layers of it, if he can read what Tony’s energies are reaching for, what his thoughts can’t seem to focus beyond. Tony hopes so. 

Stephen’s heart beats like the gears in a clocktower. 

Then the hour strikes, clear and undeniable, and Tony presses onto his toes to kiss him. 

{(●)}

Tony kisses him, and every whisper of hesitance drains from Stephen in an instant. 

Stephen feels his heart soar, his lungs stop, and his Gaze reverberate with the colors of two different souls. He feels time and space and  _ Tony.  _ The prince’s hand is on the back of his neck, playing with the curls of his hair and the chain of his amulet. His lips are warm and they press cool autumn wind between Stephen’s teeth. Tony tastes so very human. 

Stephen kisses him, and it’s with a gentleness born of eternity. 

He tips his face downward, pressing their foreheads together. Their noses brush as their mouths part. Tony’s exhale is almost shocked, almost smug, and Stephen can read it in the energies surrounding them. 

A hand trails along his neck, cupping his cheek. Tony touches the spot of skin behind his ear and curls his fingers beneath Stephen’s jaw. He presses, and Stephen responds with a breathless chuckle to kiss him again. They move together, slow and relaxed. Like they have all the time in the world. 

Tony’s thumb brushes against the pattern of his Eye. What Tony wants, all the prince’s awe and satisfaction and curiosity, focuses in the colors that makeup his aura. It takes Stephen’s breath away. He has to pull back to remember how to see the physical world too. He shivers.

Tony’s half-closed eyes flit up to meet his. “Cold?” he hums.

“Not in the least,” Stephen says, and leans down again. 

{(●)}

“I’ve thought about doing this at least four times each night since you appeared in the ballroom,” Tony says. His fingers trace the sharp edges of a cheekbone again and again. 

Stephen nuzzles into his hand, kissing the middle of his palm. “Your reputation assures that’s not unheard of.”

“Not like this,” Tony says. “Not when—” He doesn’t know what to say. It’s made exponentially more difficult by Stephen’s lips traveling to his wrist. “Damn it.”

Stephen smirks. “Sorry, am I distracting you?”

Tony manages a half-hearted glare. “What happened to the cautious, dare I say shy wizard I’ve been trying to flirt with for 96 hours now?”

Stephen gives him a look like he’s just asked if the sky was blue. “You kissed  _ me,  _ Your Highness.”

Tony does it again, because he can, and because he wants to commit the little hiss of delight Stephen makes to memory. “So I did.” 

“You danced with me.”

Tony’s mouth roves to Stephen’s jaw, the underside of his chin. “So I did.”

“You said you’d figure something out.” Stephen’s voice is quieter now. “To tell your family.”

Tony closes his eyes, face turning downward. He lets his forehead rest on Stephen’s shoulder. A warm, lanky arm wraps around Tony with only the barest touch of uncertainty, their left hands still clasped tight. 

“So I did,” Tony says. 

“But not until the day after tomorrow.” Tony feels Stephen lay the side of his face against Tony’s hair. The crown presses almost invasively between them.

_ Not until I live through this next night,  _ Tony thinks, and sighs.

“We really had to go and make this complicated, didn’t we?” he huffs.

“You definitely wouldn’t have had to deal with this with the Ancient One.” There’s a smile in Stephen’s voice—and Tony’s abruptly certain that it’s the first time he’s heard anything but hurt in the sorcerer’s voice when’s spoken her name. 

“I’m glad it’s you.”

Stephen’s fingers tangle tighter with his. “Me too.”

_ Not until I live through this next night.  _

Tony doesn’t want to leave this lantern-lit glow of safety. He doesn’t want to think about today, about yesterday, about Howard or the prophecies or Obediah. He doesn’t want to imagine the way a blade would feel severing his ribs or snapping his spinal column. But his thoughts don’t stay where he wishes. Even when he tucks himself further into Stephen’s embrace and hums the tune the orchestra is playing in the courtyard outside. 

“How long have we been here?” he mumbles.

“Hours.”

“Fuck.”

“Agreed.” Stephen cards his fingers through Tony’s hair, straightening it out again. “But there’s hours yet until sunrise.”

“I suppose you aren’t going to use it to kiss me.”

Stephen chuckles. “As appealing as the suggestion is, I’m not. There’s half a dozen questions I still have to answer, and a number of servants I want to interrogate.”

“There were some new arrivals to the palace today,” Tony contributes. “Nobles coming back from other areas of the kingdom, or ambassadors from other rulerships.”

Stephen nods, and Tony can feel the muscles moving in his neck. “Right.”

“And get some sleep, would you? As your priorities are obviously  _ completely  _ whacked up.”

Stephen laughs wholly this time. “Only if you do the same.

It takes too much effort to extricate himself from Stephen’s grip. He steps back and unconsciously brushes his fingers across his own lips. Stephen’s eyes trace the movement. Shaking himself and straightening his shoulders, Tony forces his thoughts into an orderly progression—though his blood is still singing with a cry to  _ reach out reach out reach out.  _ Stephen’s swaying toward him. 

Somehow, the action of stepping back feels far less final than the moment Stephen takes a deep breath and closes his Eye back into his amulet. He tucks the pendent away— _ hides  _ it, and blinks at Tony with a gaze that seems just a little empty. Tony wishes it didn’t have to be. He wishes so hard it hurts. 

Stephen looks back up at him, mouth quirked in sardonic apology. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, then shakes his head with an air of helplessness. Tony takes a step forward. Instead of speaking, Stephen leans in to kiss him again. It’s softer this time. 

Words whisper against Tony’s lips, and it sounds like a promise. Like a prayer. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tony says when they both step back.

“And the day after?” There’s hesitant hope in the question.

_ The day after.  _ The sixth day. When the Celebration was over. 

“Yeah,” Tony says, and smiles. “And the day after.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a style and that style is DANCING SCENE
> 
> (I like them, okay.)
> 
> Hope you liked! Drop me a kudos or a comment if you've got the time, and thanks for reading. <3


	9. The Fifth Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me again, returning with a l o n g chapter and an intent to cause you pain. The pacing got away from me a little. Enjoy this, and join me in dislike for Howard Stark.

Stephen stands in a darkened corridor on the castle’s second floor and stares at the window seat at its epicenter. He can see the northern courtyard, now empty, stretching out beneath the enormous glass panes that wink at him like they know why he’s here.

Maybe they do. Maybe the ghosts the nobles say haunt this place know exactly what has brought Stephen to stand among them. 

Exhaustion wars with determination, clenched within Stephen’s shaking fists as he waits in the vacant corridor and stares. His vision is blurring and his limbs feel like they’re made of lead. He sways slightly where he stands. But he doesn’t move; he can’t quite make himself move. 

Exactly fourteen minutes ago, the clocktower struck four in the morning. And exactly thirteen minutes ago, Stephen was struck with the rock-hard certainty that he  _ doesn’t even have twenty-four hours left.  _ In a timeline that no longer exists—that he’s promised will no longer exist—Tony Stark dies right where Stephen’s standing in less than a day. And Stephen can still only speculate on the hand that wields the weapon, and the reason why.

He stands in the corridor, the darkness pressing in around him. It feels cold. It feels like rain that tastes of soot. It feels like the light mountain air of the Far Reaches on the day the Ancient One had looked at him without Seeing.

Again and again, the Order had tried to undo it. And again and again, they’d failed. Stephen no longer holds the disillusioned confidence that he can rewrite anything—he no longer thinks of time as something that he can so arrogantly control. Not with the blood all over his teacher’s clothes. He couldn’t undo that.

What if he can’t undo this, either?

What if he stands here in a few hours and the ghosts that sit in this window have been joined by another?

Stephen’s feet are sore from dancing, and his vision is freshly reminded of how barren it is after the brief relief of opening his Eye. Even as he fights away the terror of what being wrong would entail, even as he thinks again and again of what he knows and what he still needs to find out, all Stephen wants is to be back in that library. 

(He wonders if that was how dawn would feel if he reached out to touch it. He wonders if that was the noise a constellation would make if he ran his hands through its hair. Maybe it couldn’t even compare.)

The window mocks him with its clearness. Through it, he can see the lantern light of the gardens dancing like each pinprick is alive. They look like fairies, like the fireflies Stephen saw once on a mission to the foothills to the east. Very few are awake to see them. Perhaps they feel safer, because of it.

Stephen doesn’t think he’s awake. If he was, there wouldn’t be so much fear. There wouldn’t be so much certainty that he’s going to watch another person he cares about attacked on the floorboards of a home that should have protected them. When  _ he  _ should have protected them. 

It’s so very difficult to wipe blood off glass.

_ Get some sleep,  _ the Ancient One would tell him if she saw his dull, staring gaze. He hasn’t caught more than three hours since that first night curled in the kitchens of the servant’s hall. How could he? But he’s climbed walls today, has stolen signatures. He’s danced. He’s jumped through time. His hands shake like dead leaves in the autumn gales. Every breath feels like it comes through fog. 

But he has less than a day. Less than a day, and no proof for what has to be true. 

Tony wants proof, he thinks disjointedly. Tony wants to protect his kingdom and his trust, like a prince should—like a king should. Stephen respects that. He won’t betray it.

He would do anything but betray it.

Transparent glass reflects the barest touch of his reflection. Stephen closes his eyes in a blink and finds it difficult to reopen them. He moves forward, and it’s less of a walk then a stumble. Weariness turns to relief as he sinks into the curtained nook of the window seat. His hands trail over the beautifully stained wood. The soft, cotton cushion against his shoulder and under his knees is colorless in the darkness. 

Somehow, despite being able to see everything, the window seat manages to feel secluded. It’s concealed without feeling isolated. Stephen can see why Tony called it his favorite spot. 

He leans his temple against the glass, fighting to keep his eyes open. Across the gardens, the clocktower rises, and Stephen can see the very same wall he scaled earlier that day. It feels like years ago. 

He can see the window he climbed through, too. The light’s on inside the room it protects, and the silhouette of a figure sits over the desk inside. Stane. 

Stephen blinks slowly, drawing his knees up to his chest. The advisor is still at work, still  _ discovering,  _ and Stephen should be too. He needs to stay one step ahead of Stane. 

But maybe he can just lay here. Just for a little while. He can see Stane from the window seat, better than most other places in the castle. It’s late, and everyone that could conceivably do him good to speak to is either asleep or frantically cleaning from the Celebration. Stephen has already been driven out of the throne room three times in the hours since he’s left the library. 

The shadows of the alcove are dark and inviting, and Stephen lets his heavy eyes drift across them. Just for a little while. It’s so quiet here.

And no one can die within its walls if he’s already armoring them. 

He falls asleep, and he dreams about ghosts. 

But it isn’t for a little while. Deeply unconscious, Stephen only half-surfaces at the chimes of the clocktower. His hands itch as the scrapes of his climb begin to close, and Stephen scratches them in his sleep enough that they bleed. He’s a quiet sleeper, but not a still one; he twitches as his dreams drive him tighter around himself. 

So it’s like this, disheveled and traced with red, that they find him the next morning. 

In his defense, he’d had a long day. A great many other things are more important, in his opinion, than the bored castle guards and their concern with yesterday’s thief. Yesterday’s thief doesn’t even  _ exist;  _ it’s a story the king engineered to keep the guard’s eyes on the lookout for suspicious activity. 

But they look anyway. 

“Hey,” a voice says, filtering into Stephen’s dream. It’s only one more lost, confusing call.

Stephen stirs when something jabs into his side, then jerks awake when it pushes at his scarred hands. The covered faces of two figures squint against the sun coming in through the window. Unrecognizing, Stephen squints back. 

“Can I help you?” he says, voice still raspy from sleep.

“Yes, I think you can.” The guard crosses his arms, one palm resting on his sword. Stephen almost wants to laugh. Is that supposed to intimidate him?

“Raza,” the other guard says, a tad warningly. Stephen focuses on him. He doesn’t recognize them—he likely wouldn’t even with his Eye open. 

“Don’t, Pangborn.” Raza waves him off. “Look at him; this isn’t a  _ noble.” _

Stephen grins a languid grin. “I’m not, but your mistake is flattering.”

They look at him like they aren’t exactly sure what to make of his words. Stephen seizes that, as he’s starting to get the feeling he might have landed himself somewhere he  _ decidedly  _ doesn’t want to be. He’s very, very conscious of the fact that his ‘sponsor’, Professor Tao of Shieldeir university, doesn’t exist. And she certainly didn’t send him with an official invitation. 

“You’re not a servant,” the second guard, Pangborn, observes. Stephen watches that excuse slip away a tad disappointedly. He isn’t surprised, however; the staff is tight knit in the castle. Stephen would only be recognized for his tendency for hanging around the crown prince. If these soldiers don’t rank high enough to have recognized him from that, they must alternatively be close with Potts’ staff. 

“I could be,” Stephen tries anyway. “I’m a page in Noble Palmer’s fief.”

Raza looks almost amused at that. “No you’re not.”

“Why not?”

“Because that necklace that shines like it’d pay my wages for a month, and you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Resisting the urge to grab at his Eye, Stephen feigns offense. “Is it so hard to believe that a servant can be assiduous in their craft?”

“Yes,” Raza says, his voice even colder now. “Because no servant would know what  _ assiduous  _ means.”

Stephen’s still grinning. “Do you?”

“No,” Pangborn snorts. He sounds partway to amused, though Stephen doesn’t mistake that for a weakness. “But that’s sort of the point, isn’t it?”

“It means I serve the crown with great care and perseverance,” Stephen drawls. He’s quite proud of the fact that he manages to keep all but the dregs of sarcasm out of his tone. 

“We’re not here for a vocabulary lesson,” says Raza. His heavy, protective leathers reflect dull light back at Stephen from the window. Distractedly, Stephen squints. He scratches at the scrapes on his hands. 

“Maybe you  _ weren’t _ ,” he says, “but its never too late to be a little more perspicacious.”

The guards stare at him, unamused. 

Stephen frowns. “Come on, that was funny. I wasn’t insulting you in pompous, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“We also aren’t here to be  _ entertained.”  _ Raza sounds particularly irritated now. 

Stephen wonders if there’s any chance of him talking himself out of guardsmen suspicions at this point. The problem is that Stephen  _ is  _ suspicious. The guards are on high alert, and Stephen, despite his best efforts, has done an atrocious job of staying undercover. Perhaps his best approach is simply to have as much fun with these two as he can before he’s asked to produce an invitation he doesn’t have. All he has is his signed document from the future versions of King Howard and Queen Maria, back when they ordered him on this mission in the first place. 

So he could keep amusing himself. Or he could run. 

Stephen glances behind him. Out the bay window, the tower and Stane’s quarters stand huge and unassuming in his vision. The clock’s black-slashed hands mark the hour, ticking ever forward.

And Stephen’s entire perception slides sideways as he realizes he has eight hours left. 

All thoughts of teasing the guardsman suffocate beneath a steely, panicked sort of determination, and Stephen turns back around as the smile falls off his face. He doesn’t have time for this. And he certainly doesn’t have time to be arrested. 

For a moment, he considers going for his Eye. He can be away from here before the guards even arrived, so long as he manages to open his Eye and jump before these guards can restrain him. The possibility of the latter, though, is more daunting than Stephen wants to admit. They’d know to keep him from covering his face with his hand. They’d try to take his Eye. They’d grab his wrists, his hands— 

Stephen blinks, just once. When he fixes his gaze on Raza and Pangborn again, all levity is gone. 

“Look,” he begins. “I have business here, and it can’t wait for you to finish your little interrogation. So either ask what you want to ask, or get the hell out of my way.”

If his capricious shift in tone surprises the guards, they don’t balk. Raza holds his sword a little tighter. 

“Who are you?” he asks. “And why are you here?”

“Good questions,” Stephen replies coldly. “And neither is any of your business.”

The sword is drawn a few, threatening inches. Stephen hardly bats an eyelash. Raza growls, “the king, I believe, is looking for you.”

Stephen resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure he is.”

“Wait, Raza, try not to jump to conclusions,” interrupts Pangborn. To Stephen, he tries, “all this can be forgotten as long as you show that you aren’t a danger. It is a holiday, after all. Could I see your Celebration invitation?”

The guard holds out a hand. The thick glove that covered his hand speaks of sword work, and his eyes are cautious, but not yet hostile.

Stephen doesn’t hesitate. His hand curls. He flashes his elbow out, though he keeps eye-contact with Pangborn to withhold any warning of the movement. The strike is quick and vicious. It floors Raza, winding him. 

Stephen takes off. He’s fully awake now—being threatened and exposed will do that to a Revisionist—and his steps are practically bounds. Ducking toward the far door, Stephen focuses only on getting space between him and the guardsmen. He hears the sound of a sword being drawn. One hand comes up to wrap around his amulet, and he begins to concentrate—

A hand grabs at his collar.  _ Shit,  _ Pangborn is fast. Stephen feints to the side, and the guard barrels past him. He sidesteps the stumbling man’s attempt to trip him. It keeps him on his feet, but doesn’t keep Pangborn from sliding in front of him. Raza is fighting back to his feet behind. The castle wall looms on on Stephen’s left, and the great hall is curling away to his right. Neither is favorable.

“I knew it,” Raza snarls. He looks absolutely furious. One hand is curled around his ribs; Stephen hopes they bruise.

“I think you might be overreacting,” he drawls.

“You’re under arrest.” Pangborn’s voice has finally gone hard, losing the compromising tone from the rest of the conversation. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Stephen sighs under his breath. At least they didn’t say  _ ‘by order of the king’  _ or anything equally nauseating. Stephen doesn’t like being pandered to, or about. 

The guards seem to expect him to respond. Stephen shrugs and says, “would it make you feel better if I acted surprised?”

Raza lunges for him. Stephen ducks sideways and springs past him, retreating toward the other side of the corridor. If he can get out onto the castle walls, he might be able to gain enough space to open his Eye. 

He doesn’t make it more than five steps. The hilt of a sword slams against one of Stephen’s shoulders, and he yelps more in surprise than in pain. He can’t help his stumble. Pangborn uses the slight hesitation to curl a vice-like grip over Stephen’s wrist. 

Stephen swallows the involuntarily surge of panic that tries to fuzz out his vision when the man’s gloved hand presses against his scars. He drops, then twists, attempting to break the man’s grip. Pangborn is expecting it. He twists too, and Stephen finds his perception flipping on its head. He’s slammed against the floor hard enough to disorient him. 

“You’re a slippery one,” Pangborn observes. There’s nothing joking in his tone. 

Stephen is tensing to flip himself upright and swing another elbow when Raza’s boot presses down on his other shoulder. The weight throws him off—Stephen grunts. 

Raza looks like he’s about to sneer something that might have been insulting if Stephen had the intelligence of a mountain goat, but Pangborn raises a hand before he can. At first, Stephen thinks its a silencing gesture. He prepares to yank himself away again. Breaking Pangborn’s grip will be easier than sliding out of range of Raza’s boot before the man can stomp down and possibly fracture his clavicle—

Pangborn’s hand is not raised to silence Raza. It’s raised for the length of worn, strong rope the guard hands his companion. 

All thoughts of struggle drain out of Stephen’s mind. 

“Don’t,” he says. His voice is no longer aloof. “Don’t. I’ll come quietly, or whatever it is your castle regulations demand.”

Pangborn raises an eyebrow. “Did you consider securing an enemy’s hands  _ is  _ castle regulation? Not to mention  _ common sense?” _

Stephen is caught between the urge to struggle and the urge to scoff. “I’m not your enemy,” he says. 

Raza does scoff. “Oh, good to know. I guess we’ll just let you go so you can keep sneaking into royalty’s rooms and stealing Avelshian relics. Want to drop a knife in someone’s neck on your way out?”

Stephen might have quipped something, then, about never having snuck into  _ royalty’s  _ rooms specifically. He might have, had Pangborn not looped a length of the rope over his wrist, all too close to his thumb. Stephen can feel it pressuring the bones of his palm. 

He writhes. Sudden and intense, he yanks himself away from both Pangborn and Raza, ignoring the warning on his shoulder. He can hardly feel it. Lying still is unacceptable. Having his hand restrained is  _ unacceptable.  _

Somewhere beneath the utter, unarguable knowledge that he has to  _ move,  _ Stephen knows there’s no point. But it still knocks his breath in hard stones from his lungs when the rope tightens like a noose around his wrist. Pain spiders up through his fingers. Stephen considers pulling anyway—dislocating his shoulder to perhaps find a more opportune angle. He might’ve. Would’ve, but Pangborn curses and pins Stephen to the ground again.

“Give me a hand, would you?” Pangborn barks to Raza. The other guard is all too happy to oblige. 

“Don’t,” Stephen says again. The pain is a sharp agony now, and Stephen wonders how much of it is in his head.

He’s ignored. Predictably.

Stephen searches frantically for something to focus on. He snags his breathing as it ratchets harshly. Every blink of his attention is channeled toward keeping it coming, smooth and even and a little too deep. He has nothing left for resisting as his hands are tied securely behind his back. 

Stephen is suddenly nauseatingly glad he didn’t try to open his Eye. If they’d been able to see it, been able to pull it from him—

He’s breathing too fast. Stephen shakes his head, staring at his knees as he’s hauled to his feet by grunting guards. He’s a deadweight.

_ Focus. _

A shovel.

_ Focus.  _

Small hands.

_ Focus.  _

Ivory bone bared to the air, blood turning the dirt to mud, still blonde hair spilling out atop the golden grass.  _ Blink,  _ and never, not at all.

_ Focus. _

Save his life. Less than eight hours.

Stephen focuses. 

“What lovely vacation destination should I expect?” Stephen says. He knows his shoulders are shaking. His voice isn’t. 

“Ever been to the dungeons? It’s nice this time of year.”

Stephen hums. It takes too much effort to form a response. “I’d think I could expect at least a short audience with the higher end of the food chain before that point.”

“Oh, I disagree,” Raza growls. “A stint in a cell until the end of the Celebration would do wonders to your disposition.” 

“We’re supposed to take suspicious figures to the king,” Pangborn sighs. 

Suspicious figures like time thieves, nabbing secret prophecies from beneath King Howard’s nose. 

Pangborn’s holding Stephen’s upper arm where it’s wrenched behind his back. The touch is light—not respectful, of course, but not cruel either. He must’ve payed more attention to Stephen’s reaction than the Revisionist has given him credit for. 

Stephen feels horribly disconnected as his steps match the pace of his escort, and somehow he’s simultaneously hyper conscious of the tightness of the bindings around his hands. Somewhere in the haze of it, annoyance pangs. This is inconvenient. He can’t afford petty distractions like being arrested and plunged into too much panic to think straight. 

“Do you think we could hurry this up?” Stephen hears himself say.

He’s answered with a rough jostle and the faint relief that the chain of his Eye has slid into his collar, out of sight. 

(He wouldn’t be able to stop them anyway, if they tried to take it.) 

“We’re taking you to the throne room.” Pangborn sounds tired. 

“What, do you have somewhere to be?” Raza does not. Stephen’s hands burn on the ropes. 

He blinks. Breathes. Summons his smirk. “Yes, actually.”

Antagonizing Pangborn and Raza won’t get him out of this. It’s probably what got him  _ into  _ this, but Stephen’s not about to stop. It’s the least he can do. Some small, petty shred of payback. 

(In his memory, blood drips off the tips of his fingers.)

Stephen wonders what the king and queen will be like in this timeline, one person different than the reality he’d met them in before. He wonders what they’ll want from him. How much he’ll have to tell them. 

(Stephen’s arms are burning all the way up to his shoulders, now.)

He supposes he’ll find out. 

{(●)}

Tony wakes up on the last day of his life, and the morning is beautiful.

Blue sky stretches unbroken above the autumn trees, shedding red leaves like sparks in a light, easy breeze. It’s the kind of day students would write poems about, the kind of day that the last day of the Dynasty Celebration is  _ supposed  _ to be. If it had been any other, Tony would’ve taken Peter into the market and bought the ripest of the pumpkin harvest. 

It’s beautiful, but it’s his  _ last,  _ and Tony has no idea what to make of it.

He’d hardly slept last night. Research and theory and pointless worry kept him up. Fingers running over his lips, he’d drawn blueprint after blueprint, and after a while they’d become timelines. Tony had built spiderwebs out of possibilities and it made nothing clearer. When he slipped to sleep with ink smudging his fingers and tinkering in the forefront of his mind, the sky had already been lightening. 

Tony wakes up on the last day of his life, and he knows exactly what he wants to do with it. 

There’s food in the foyer of his rooms when he steps toward the door, and Tony pauses to consider it. He swipes something small he can carry in one hand before striding out the door and into the sunlit hallways and the court. Windows are thrown open along every corridor. They let in fresh air and warm rays, and the tapestries sway like sails, picking up dust from the tiled floors. Tony reaches out and trails his fingers along them. 

He pays more attention to the people he passes. He’s not sure if its out of suspicion, or out of the simple awareness that he might not see them tomorrow. Maybe that’s why he smiles more, smiles his court smile that invites conversation. Why he’s grateful when people take him up on it.

Tony walks the halls and lets his gaze wander toward the windows. He can see figures in the courtyard. They’re talking, negotiating, arguing, Asgardians with their bright eyes tipped toward the sky as they speak to court members Tony could identify in his sleep. In the corner the gardens, he can see Rhodey’s squires sparing with wooden weapons. Rhodey must’ve let them off for the morning. The knight himself sits on the raised wall of the courtyard fountain, eating an apple with his sword on his lap. 

Stopping by the window for a moment, Tony puts a hand out to stop the drape from blowing into his face. He leans on the sill, elbows locked, and just watches. The people look so happy. Tony’s half grateful and half miffed about that. He isn’t sure he’d want an empty, cloudy business day to be his last. Still, the sun makes him feel even more disconnected from the people around him than the knowledge of tonight had been making usual. 

Beneath the walls, a pair of servants throw a wad fabric between them as they make for the city. They’re laughing. Thor leans against an ivory covered turret wall, speaking to an Avelshian woman and gesturing excitedly. Tony can see movement in one of the trees sprouting from the far, walled off gardens. When he looks closer, he sees Loki and Peter climbing over the castle wall. He watches them until he can’t without the sun blinding him.

“Enjoying the atmosphere?” a voice says beside him.

Tony glances up at the noble lingering to his right. “It’s certainly a lovely morning.”

“The Dynasty Celebration has certainly made the connections the court was hoping for.” The nobleman nods, staying a respectful distance away from Tony. He has a book tucked beneath one arm, and Tony recognizes the embroidered gloves he wears. 

“I met you yesterday,” Tony recalls. “Lord Kai, was it?”

“Correct, Your Highness,” the lord says evenly. 

“Has the Celebration given  _ you  _ what you were hoping for, yet?” Tony asks with a smirk. It gives the noble permission to crack a grin of his own. 

“Not yet.” Kai shrugs. “But I’m new. My uncle will be back before long, and nobody will remember his temporary stand-in.” 

Tony leans back against the window, facing the noble fully. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “And the timing certainly won’t do you poorly. Tie yourself into enough politics during the Celebration, and you can make yourself invaluable to the territories or the ambassadors.”

“Sound advice,” the lord says smoothly.

Tony waves him away. “Don’t suck up; you already knew every point I just made.”

The noble laughs, and it sounds surprised. “I see you haven’t escaped the day’s mood, either.”

Gesturing out the window, Tony shrugs. “You neither. Days like this would be good for hunting, I’d assume.” It’s easy, almost muscle memory, to draw on the information he knows about Lord Kai, to put them on good standing as preparation for possible negotiation. 

“The best,” Kai agrees. If he’s surprised or flattered by Tony’s remembered detail, he doesn’t show it. Good for him. It keeps them on equal footing, and Tony gets the feeling this isn’t a politician who doesn’t notice when he’s getting taken advantage of. 

Maybe, if Tony survives the night, he’ll extend Kai an invitation. The lord might be an asset to Tony’s court when he’s king. 

“Remind me where you lived before you were recalled here?” Tony says. 

“My official residence was a border fief by the Eastern coast.” 

“But?”

The lord straightens his gloves. “But I spent the summers in Asgard and the Far Reaches and winters at the university.” 

That gets Tony’s attention again. “Really? Part time research?”

“Indeed, your Highness.”

Tony nods, raising an eyebrow. “Impressive.” 

“You flatter me.”

Shaking his head with a snort, Tony looks back out the window. “No, there’s only one person I’ll be flattering today, and he’s currently missing in action.”

Kai nods slowly, as if trying to pick through a memory. “Right,” he says. “I saw you with someone briefly at the Celebration, but…”

“But you didn’t pay too much attention given my reputation?”

“Yes, that,” the noblemen chuckles. He inclines his head. “No offense meant.”

Tony waves it away. “None taken.”

They’re quiet for a moment, watching the peaceful bustle taking place in the sunlight beneath the window. Tony half-expects Kai to excuse himself. There’s a whole morning to be milked for productivity, after all. But instead the nobleman says, “you should go out.”

Tony side-eyes him. “What?”

Kai gestures with one black-clad hand. “It’s a nice day. You should enjoy it.”

Tony looks toward where the sun rises toward its apex and thinks about time. He thinks about autumn, and ghosts, and suits of armor in dusty, shining rows. He thinks about mourning robes. He thinks about kisses to the sound of a fiddle in a wing-wrought library.

“Maybe I should,” he says quietly. 

Tony sways back away from the window, brushing the dust of crushed leaves from his fingertips. It itches under his fingernails. Tony contains the instinct to wipe his hand on whatever cloth is closest; he’d learned long ago not to make more work for the servants. Shaking his mind back into the present—what’s left of it, at least—Tony steps back into the hall. 

Kai watches him, unmoving. One of his black-clad hands is curled over his own shoulder. When the lord doesn’t show any attention of following, Tony turns to nod and excuse himself. He freezes halfway through the movement. His gaze tracks an approaching figure striding purposefully through the hall toward him. It’s a stride Tony knows from silhouette alone. 

“Obie.” Tony speaks without awareness. He catches himself a moment later. “Lord Stane.”

“Your Highness,” Obediah replies. He inclines his chin to Kai, who wisely makes himself scarce. The expression on Obediah’s face could stop a stormfront in its tracks.

Tony’s already moving, thoughts of the day outside disappearing. “What happened?” 

“You’re needed in the throne room.”

It’s not an answer. Or at least, it wouldn’t be, had Tony not understood the signals in the way Obediah falls in step beside him and the way the advisor bites his words with a lesser noble still in earshot. Tony can gauge all he needs from those simple gestures. He speeds up and straightens his shoulders. He doesn’t ask again. 

Obediah’s footsteps are loud where Tony’s stay soft. He’s an offset rhythm, and Tony unconsciously skips a step so their gaits match. Keeping up with each other, Tony and Obediah’s streaking intention attracts subtle and questioning glances. It sucks the lightness of the day away. 

Tony tries not to think about whether or not Obediah is the kind of person who attacks from behind. 

But thoughts are wild, uncontrollable things. Imagination makes Tony tense each time a corner cuts Obediah out of his peripheral, and more than confusion keeps Tony quiet as they make their way to the throne room. Tony hadn’t believed Stephen last night—he still doesn’t, not really. But his scientist’s subconscious works off hypotheses and evidence, doubt and confirmation, and so this particular experiment has already begun. It has Obediah at its center. 

Tony watches the man, not bothering to hide the calculation in his eyes. Perhaps Obediah will take it for question about what Howard’s summoned Tony for this time. Or perhaps he’ll see it for the suspicion it is. Tony isn’t sure it would make a difference. 

There’s something surreal about that. There’s something absolutely dissociative about knowing that in an alternate reality, Tony’s going to die tonight. That in the memories of someone he cares about, he  _ already has.  _ Tony feels like a ghost, immaterial and imaginary, and all-too-real all at once. It’s dizzying. 

Obediah has started watching him as they walk. His eyes are unreadable. Tony wishes, not for the first time, that Stephen was here. 

Obediah finally opens his mouth when the dusty suits of armor that flank the throne room are within view. “Be prepared,” he warns, his mouth pressed in a thin line.

“For what?” Tony’s steps miss a beat.

“Your father is…  _ less than pleased,”  _ Obediah says, pointed and apologetic. 

Ah. So Tony is about to get a verbal and emotional lashing for a mistake he isn’t aware he’s made. Perfect.

He thinks, ruefully, that it’s the last day of his life. He should be spared the lecture. 

Obediah pushes open one of the doors for Tony, his hand splayed over one of the carved eyes. Tony waves a hand in automatic thanks. He ducks into the throne room, seeking out his mother. She gives him a tight nod, and Tony returns it. When he looks away, he expects to see blazing eyes already boring into him, but Howard doesn’t even seem to notice his entrance. The king’s lethal gaze is turned elsewhere. Tony follows it with his own. 

He stops frozen in the doorway. 

Stephen stands like nothing’s wrong. Even with the weapons, the escort, and the glare of a king pinning him to the floor like a butterfly to a board, Stephen looks untouchable. He projects annoyance with his hands clasped behind his back in all the dwarfing immensity of this room and the figures it contains. Tony might’ve believed him. Might have, if not for the shadow behind the single eye Tony can see along his profile. Might have, if not for the way he shies—barely noticeable—away from the grip that keeps him in place. 

He doesn’t look at Tony when the door booms shut. He doesn’t look at anything. 

“What is this?” Tony demands, leaping into movement. He doesn’t spare Obediah a glance. 

Howard finally looks at Tony, and there is the anger, the disappointment, the judgement. Tony doesn’t give a shit. He strides forward until he realizes he doesn’t know where to go. Tense, he stops somewhere between the dais and where Stephen is being held. 

“Anthony,” Howard says cooly.

“What the hell is going on?” Tony asks again.

“Perhaps you would like to answer that,” Howard tells him, and Tony thinks—no. There’s nothing in this world that could scare his father. Tony must have seen something else on his face.

Tony’s gaze darts to Stephen. Who still isn’t looking at him.

There’s silence. One of the guards, Pangborn, coughs awkwardly, still holding Stephen still—though the Revisionist is hardly trying to move. A smirk creeps across Stephen’s face. It’s brittle. And Tony knows something is very, very wrong. 

Maria sighs, then, frustrated. “For Vishanti’s sake, Howard,” she says. She looks at Tony, who is happy to pull his gaze away from his father’s, and explains, “this man is not supposed to be here.”

She says it like Tony’s supposed to guess her meaning. He does, despite how wrong she is. Yesterday, the monarchy’s most well-kept secret was stolen. And today, an invitationless, roomless stranger was caught doing something he inevitably shouldn’t be, because Stephen did little else. Tony knows exactly what conclusion his parents jumped too.

Stephen’s mouth cuts a foul line when he speaks. “Avleshi takes personal audience with  _ crown thieves  _ these days? One would think its leaders would have better things to do.”

Raza and Pangborn shift awkwardly. Tony can tell they agree, but they wisely say nothing. 

Stephen still hasn’t looked at him. 

“You know perfectly well why you’re here,” Maria says to Stephen. Her tone is neither hostile nor friendly. 

Howard jerks his hand in dismissal to the guards that flank the sorcerer. They hesitate, faces questioning, and Howard deigns to explain himself. “He won’t try to run,” the king says, completely confident. 

And Tony realizes why he’s here.

The guards scuttle out of the room, recognizing the fact that the proceeding discussion extends beyond their pay-grade. Stephen doesn’t acknowledge them. Like Howard guessed, he doesn’t move. Not even to  _ look at Tony. _

As soon as the lesser knights are out of earshot, Maria leaps directly to the point. “If you intend blackmail, it won’t work.”

Stephen smiles provocatively. “A few jewels have no baring on a kingdom, I’m sure.”

“Acting ignorant will earn you no favors,” Maria says. 

“Then tell, me, exactly; what is it that I’m supposed to know?”

“It wasn’t a crown you stole. What have you done with the prophecies?”

Tony knows it’s too late for Stephen to feign innocence. He’s proven, biting and sarcastic, that he knows perfectly well there was never any crown thief. But Tony still hopes for an instant he’s not about to watch Stephen get arrested for treason. 

“I haven’t done anything with them,” Stephen says. Not a lie—he never had them in the first place. Stephen’s fishing for information. He shifts his weight into his left leg. 

“And your intention?” Howard’s question is less wonderance and more statement. 

“To satisfy my curiosity,” Stephen replies. 

Maria smiles tightly at that. “Curiosity doesn’t drive civilians to fake their identity and steal from a king.”

“Perhaps it was concern, then,” Stephen says. 

“What could  _ possibly  _ concern you?”

“Your son.”

Tony is as surprised by the response as Howard and Maria. But what confuses him is the way the king and queen seem to think Tony is  _ relevant  _ to the theft of the prophecies _ ,  _ somehow. 

“You haven’t told him,” Howard says, and it’s almost a threat. 

Stephen still doesn’t look at Tony. “No.”

Tony knows he’s bullshitting, but he still wants to scream,  _ told me what?  _ What makes his family so intent on keeping this obviously essential secret from him? His hands clench into fists, but he stays quiet. 

“This is no leverage against us,” Maria says. Her fingers flicker along her knees. 

“Really?” Stephen says. “So if I spilled the truth right now, you would have nothing to hide?”

“There are ways to silence you.”

“I almost look forward to them,” Stephen responds. His voice is wrong. Flat. Like he can’t quite remember what it sounds like to be human. His arms are still out of sight. He hasn’t once moved them. 

Tony jerks forward, the data  _ clicking  _ into a conclusion in his mind. Stephen’s empty tone. The way he flinched when the guards touched him. The way he just stands there, barely tethered to the timeline. Tony doesn’t even hear Howard’s protest, halfway to Stephen in an instant. 

A hand curls over his shoulder, holding him back. It’s Obediah, looking sympathetic even as he carries out the king’s order. “Your Highness,” he warns.

It’s easy to stop pretending not to be furious. Tony twists away from him, trying to meet Stephen’s eyes. He ends up looking at his father instead. 

“You’ve tied his hands,” Tony snarls. “You’ve—”

Stephen finally looks up at him, and Tony can’t finish the word. That sharp, angry cant in Stephen’s expression drains away. What’s left is almost wild, a shudderingly thin leash on pain and fear. Tony reaches out into empty space without meaning to. Stephen flinches, though Tony can’t tell if it’s toward him or away. 

He remembers that night on the castle wall, when unexpected touch had thrown Stephen into memories he didn’t know how to think about without reliving. Every beat of Tony’s heart is accompanied by a need to throw off Obediah’s hand, to  _ fix this.  _

“Let him go,” Tony snarls.

Howard practically sneers. “He’s a criminal. And now a threat, because of your incompetence.” 

Tony stills in surprise. There’s cold, cold anger in Howard’s voice, and it almost scares the prince. 

“You’ve been  _ fraternizing  _ with a security disaster for five days.” Howard stands, stepping down onto the second stair of the dais. “You had the audacity to come to me and claim you were entitled to state secrets when  _ you  _ are the reason they’re now compromised.”

Tony feels his face burn. “That’s not—”

“Was it some kind of idiotic act of rebellion, hiding this man when I specifically ordered you to come to me with knowledge of anyone suspicious? Do you really care so little about the kingdom that you’re supposed to protect? Or are you just too stupid to notice this thief’s true motives?” 

Tony flinches as if struck. His mother has her lips pursed in a frown, glaring at Howard, but she doesn’t interrupt.  _ She agrees,  _ Tony thinks.  _ She agrees with what he’s saying, but not how he’s saying it.  _

And—well, why shouldn’t she? Aside from the truth, there’s no other explanation for Tony’s actions. He’s the crown prince, and as far as the kingdom is concerned, he kissed a traitor in the library last night. Tony bites his lip and tries not to step back under the force of Howard’s accusation. 

“You were being  _ used,”  _ Howard stresses. Tony bites his lip harder on a denial. The king continues, “you were being used, and you let it happen without suspicion—or else you wanted it to continue. I don’t know which is worse.” 

“Your Majesty,” Obediah begins.

Howard waves him away. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself? Some infantile excuse for why you still think you deserve the support of citizens you didn’t hesitate to discard? They’re supposed to call you their  _ king.”  _

Tony’s eyes flicker to the ground. He can’t help it. Years of conditioning tell him to look down, to look away, to diffuse his father’s anger—even if he’s done nothing wrong. He feels Howard’s gaze burning on his skin, and stays silent.

Howard shakes his head, like Tony isn’t worth the words, the effort. He starts to turn around. 

“I thought—” Tony begins. He clenches his jaw shut a moment later.

His father whirls. “No you didn’t. Or you didn’t care. Either Avelshi has an idiot for an heir, or a disappointment.”

“Oh,  _ stop.”  _

Stephen’s voice cuts through the room, and there’s true anger in it now. No longer empty, his eyes blaze when he steps forward and meets Howard’s glower. He’s moved closer to Tony. Exasperation wars with protectiveness in his expression, and it would have made Tony smile anywhere else. Stephen’s shoulders twist like like he’s trying to pull his hands free. 

“Leave him alone,” Stephen snaps at a king. “For fuck’s sake.”

“He’s endangered—”

“He’s done no such thing.” Stephen rolls his shoulders again. Tony realizes why a moment later, when the bronze glint of the chain that wraps around his neck is exposed. 

Tony doesn’t even have time to protest before Stephen growls, “I’m a Revisionist.”

{(●)} 

The chafing of rope against Stephen’s wrists has numbed his skin and his capacity for rational thought. His shoulders ache uncomfortably. Every time he twitches his scars brush against restraint, and every time instinctual panic flares in the back of his throat. So he doesn’t pull at the rope. He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t, until he couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to. 

Stephen knows, as the words leave his mouth, that he’s making a mistake. Stane is standing with his hand on Tony’s shoulder, and secrecy is still Stephen’s only chance of being able to prove the man’s intentions. Maria is already watching him with hostility. He can’t afford to escalate her scorn for him, not if he intends to get out of this in anything but chains. 

But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because his hands are tied and he already feels like an animal, and Tony looks so different with his shoulders hunched and his eyes downcast. He flinches with every lash of the king’s words. It’s unacceptable. Stephen won’t tolerate it, won’t tolerate  _ lies  _ such as that. 

So he bares the chain of his amulet to all the enemies he can make and tells the truth. 

“I’m a Revisionist.”

The hall goes silent. It’s so silent Stephen can hear the phantom cries in his memory, the sound of—

“Damn it, Stephen,” Tony says. His hands come up to scrub his face. 

The king actually looks taken aback. Stephen might’ve felt satisfied, if he hand any mental capacity to do so. “He’s—you—”

“I’m a Revisionist. I’m working on the orders of your future selves, and Tony is helping me. I know shit about your ‘prophecies’, and even less about whatever misconception could  _ possibly  _ make you think Tony doesn’t care about Avelshi.” Stephen hopes they can hear every ounce of his anger in his voice. He can’t remember how to project it.

“Stephen,” Tony hisses again.

“I know,” Stephen tells him. He waits.

Howard’s eyes are calculating when they fall on him, and Maria’s are unreadable. Obediah looks interested, though his face is smoothly controlled. Scenarios spiral on short leashes inside Stephen’s head. They tangle together—and they all end in blood.

“You’re from the Order,” Howard says. “I’m not sure that  _ improves matters.” _

Stephen grits his teeth. “I have your signatures on a future document proving my claim.”

“I don’t care,” the king says dismissively. “My  _ son  _ still failed to inform me of your presence. In fact—” cold eyes pin Stephen to the tiled floor— “you should have come straight to me upon your arrival.”

Any control Stephen might’ve had on his anger has frayed to threadbare shreds against the rope around his wrists. There is no respect in his voice when he says, “you do not have sovereignty over me. You do not have sovereignty over  _ anything  _ that I represent. And you certainly do not get to tell me how to do my job.”

The king is on his feet in a flash, and Tony’s moving too, standing in front of Stephen. It’s Stane, unexpectedly, that raises his hands and changes the subject. “What are the parameters of your mission?” 

Stephen looks at Stane. He tries to ignore the hint of raggedness in Tony’d expression when the prince stands back. 

The entire throne room is watching him. The king stands fiery and furious on the dais and the queen’s face is a mask of unnervingly controlled judgment. Stephen’s only suspect listens with easy interest. Tony is fidgeting. Even the eyes carved into the walls seem to blink at Stephen—the only things in this castle that still respect and understand who Stephen is.

Well. Not the only things anymore.

Stephen takes a breath, and the last threads of his advantage snap.

“Your son is going to die tonight,” Stephen says. He says it to Maria, quiet and weary. “Unless I do something to stop it.”

“No.”

The queen’s word isn’t an order. It isn’t a plea. It’s nothing but a quiet denial, barely audible in the room and utterly void of disbelief—there’s no room for disbelief, not when grief pools in every echo of Maria’s voice on the beautiful, cold walls. 

Tony’s head snaps up. He looks at his mother with something like horror. 

And Stephen should be watching Stane, should be gauging the king’s reaction, should be pressing his advantage while the room is still reeling. He doesn’t. Instead, he swallows his heart back into his chest and watches Tony realize what it’s like to be mourned. 

Tony sees pain and brokenness and he does what Stephen had known he would. He tries to soothe it. Fix it. “I haven’t died yet,” he says. 

When Tony smiles, Stephen’s chest feels like it’s been sucked hollow. 

He hasn’t died yet. Not yet, and Stephen’s supposed to keep it that way, supposed to wrap useless hands around the timeline and force it in a new direction. Stephen feels rain against his skin. He feels the rough texture of restraint around his aching fingers. He feels old blindness and memory that doesn’t belong to him. 

Maria covers her mouth with her palm, and Stephen feels like he’s already failed. 

“Tonight,” Maria repeats.  _ “Tonight.  _ That’s not even eight hours, Tony.”

“I know,” Tony begins.

The queen keeps talking, and there’s a tremble in her expression now. “You knew for days. We could have helped you.” 

Tony doesn’t look at Obediah, impressively enough. Stephen doesn’t quite manage it. The advisor is simply watching the proceedings, however, and Stephen can read nothing from the way he stands. 

“I know,” Tony says again. It’s quieter this time. “But we couldn’t afford… any risks.”

“Risks,” Maria says flatly. The look she turns on Stephen is frigid enough that he jerks his wrists inside their bindings instinctually. 

“Stop.” Tony steps forward, raising his hands. “This isn’t Stephen’s fault, alright? He wasn’t suspecting you, and he certainly wasn’t accusing you. He made the right choice.”

“Really?” The king speaks up disdainfully. “Tell me, then, Revisionist; do you know who’s going to do it? Have your  _ right choices  _ gotten you any further from failure?” 

Howard isn’t even looking at Tony. A flash of anger ricochets down Stephen’s spine, dangerous in its intensity.

He doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing he can say.

“That’s what I thought,” Howard says. 

“Father—” Tony begins.

Stephen interrupts him. “No,” he drawls. “His majesty should ask me the questions he  _ cares  _ about, after all.”

Howard doesn’t rise to the bait. He is not an idiot, and Stephen is far from an expert politician; he wouldn’t know how to keep himself in good standing even if he wanted to. Tony is watching the conversation with increasing dismay—but Stephen doesn’t know how to do better, doesn’t care _.  _ He has no options.

His hands are tied. 

“You were sent to save my son’s life,” Howard says. “You.”

Stephen raises his chin. “Yes.”

“Anything else?”

For a moment, Stephen falters. “Anything else sent to save him? I’m a  _ time magician,  _ your Majesty.”

“And?” The king is still standing, and he steps onto the floor of the throne room in time with his word. It makes the ground between him and Stephen look even. Stephen doesn’t fall for it.

“And nothing,” Stephen almost snaps. “ _ And  _ I’m here to help.  _ And  _ I’m not your enemy.”

“There is no other aid? Resources or relics? I would have thought this a priority.” 

Cocking his head, Stephen knocks the heel of his boot against the ground. Tony still looks like he wants to stop him speaking—or disappear completely. Stephen has never seen him look like that.

To the king, Stephen says, “what more do you want? Time itself is being reordered to suit your needs.”

Howard just shakes his head. He shares a look with Maria, and Stephen wonders at the calculation there, the confusion. It was never a question he expected to have to answer. Nothing about this makes sense, nothing about this was  _ supposed to happen.  _ Stephen traces the designs on the beautiful, alien floor tiles and waits. In the sprawling room, the sudden silence seems to loom. 

Stane breaks it. “What’s your name?” he asks, a nod from the king giving him permission to speak. Stane steps up to stand beside Tony, and Stephen tries not to flinch. 

“Stephen Strange,” Stephen says. 

“Why you?” Stane continues.

Stephen raises his chin. He remembers this future throne room, remembers a grieving, exhausted Howard’s eyes boring into him. “Because your king required the best the Order has to offer,” he says flippantly. 

(The ropes around his hands burn.)

Howard snorts. “And where was the Ancient One when I gave this directive? Why is she not standing in front of me now?”

“You don’t get to ask me that,” Stephen hears himself snap. He blinks rain out of his eyes. 

Howard’s face doesn’t change. “I may not have legal ‘sovereignty’ over you, but neither do you have authority in this room. Answer the question.”

On this day of autumn, the Ancient One is still unconscious, still recovering from a brutal attack and even more brutal anchor point. On this day of autumn, Stephen remembers buying new robes from the market in town, because he knew he’d never be able to get the blood out. On this day of autumn, the Order realizes a silver-red Eye will never Watch time again. 

Howard Stark does not get to know that. 

The Vishanti themselves could demand an answer, and Stephen would say the same.  _ No one gets to know that.  _

No one deserves to know it. No one is entitled to the explanation of blood and anchor points and the end of the Order as Stephen knew it. This regime that has stripped all knowledge of magic from its foundations does not get to satisfy their  _ curiosity  _ with his teacher’s mutilation. No one gets to know.

Not even Tony.

“No.”

Howard takes a step forward. “Answer me,” he demands. 

“Untie my hands,” Stephen snaps back. 

“You are in no position to make demands.”

The look on Tony’s face says otherwise. His hand is on his sword hilt, and Stephen doesn’t think he’s even realized. The glare of the sun on his robes makes the red around his chest glint, bloody and vivid. For a moment, Stephen thinks the prince will say something. He doesn’t.

Stephen curls his fingers through a painful shudder and touches the rough rope around his wrists. “Untie. My. Hands.”

“So you can Jump away from any question we can ask?” Maria says. 

“I won’t answer until you remember I am  _ not a monster.” _

The words slip from between Stephen’s teeth before he can stop them. The king has never looked at him like he’s a monster. Howard looks at Stephen like he’s an enemy. The crest of the king’s throne arches behind his head, the traditional Eye blinking mockingly. Stephen wants to scream. 

“Perhaps we should oblige him, your majesty,” Stane suggests quietly. 

“Perhaps we should,” Howard says. Something in his voice tells Stephen it is not a concession. “Obediah, free him.” 

Tony goes still, and Obeidah steps away from him. Stephen’s suspicion evaporates into something like relief. Maybe he can think without the ropes, maybe he can see, maybe he can breathe— 

“Then take his Eye.”

_ What? _

Obediah misses a step. Tony takes too many of his own. Even Maria’s eyes widen. And Stephen feels like someone took a shovel to the base of his skull, like the ringing of his ears is all his soul will ever feel. 

They were right. Stephen is not a monster. He’s an animal, and he’s been caged—and the axe is coming closer.

Stephen stumbles backward. “Don’t touch me,” he hisses. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Stane doesn’t—he turns wide, questioning eyes on Howard. Howard looks like a chess player taking a move, like a strategist pressing his advantage. Like a king doing what he knows. 

“I gave you an order, Obediah,” he says.

And Stane starts moving.

“Don’t,” Tony says, a hand curling like a vice around Stane’s hand. Stephen feels it, phantom, over his own digits. He flinches. Tony sees. 

Howard steps back onto the dais. “This is none of your concern, Anthony,” he says.

“None of my—do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Tony raises his voice. “That’s not a piece of fucking  _ jewelry,  _ it’s part of him!”

Howard ignores Tony. “Obediah.”

The advisor looks troubled when he tears himself away from Tony’s grip. Stephen has no space in his mind to try and reconcile that with the fact that this would be an advantage for Tony’s murderer. He just sees  _ danger,  _ sees  _ enemy,  _ and fights. Pain spears deep into Stephen’s spine as he wrenches his hands apart. He’s trying unconsciously to cover his amulet with his hand. The rope cuts into his skin. He feels wet smear across his knuckles. 

“For fuck’s sake, stop!” Tony shouts. Fury and panic war for dominance in his voice. 

Stane’s steps are a funeral march, a war chant. Stephen takes a step away for each the advisor moves.

Tony’s face is wild. “Father,  _ please!” _

Howard does hesitate, then, his eyes darting to the prince. “I have to protect you,” he says.

“Not like this,” Tony cries. But Howard is still standing. And Stane is still moving, and the ropes are loose but not loose enough, and the last time the ropes weren’t loose enough, Stephen killed his little sister. 

_ Answer the question. _

“She was attacked,” Stephen says. His voice feels like sandpaper in his throat. 

Howard raises his hand. Stane’s advance stops instantly. Chest heaving, Stephen stands in the shadows of the throne room. 

“Thank you,” Howard says. He has the decency to sound genuine. 

Stephen’s shaking. “Fuck you,” he rasps. 

It’s Tony he looks at, Tony he sways toward, unsteady on his feet. The prince’s eyes are wide. Stephen sees the exact moment when the data slots into place in that sharp, unstoppable mind. He sees the moment all the signs and secrets Stephen couldn’t help but reveal about the Ancient One fall together for Tony. Tony realizes, and he looks so  _ sorry  _ that Stephen’s almost angry.

“Oh,” Tony says. 

Stephen looks away. 

The king sits back down, and he says something to Maria that Stephen can’t hear. Or at least, he doesn’t care to hear it. Tony glances once at his parents, then begins to edge toward Stephen. He doesn’t move slowly. He isn’t cautious, isn’t soothing—he doesn’t treat Stephen like an animal in a cage. And for a moment, Stephen doesn’t feel like one.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, his voice low to keep it out of earshot of Howard.

Stephen manages a smile. “Your father’s an asshole.”

Tony grins weakly back. “They say it’s hereditary.”

“It’s good to see you,” Stephen says, because even with the blood on his wrists and the blackness in his chest it’s true.

“Yeah,” Tony replies. “I’d hoped it’d be less war crimes and more making out, but I suppose one can’t have everything.”

Stephen tries to laugh, but it sounds more like a cough. Tony grimaces. He glances down, away. The hand on his sword, white-knuckled and frozen, falls away like he’s just now realized it’s there. 

“I’m sorry,” Tony says again, and this time, he isn’t joking.

Stephen doesn’t have an answer. He isn’t joking either.

Behind them, Howard and Maria cease their wordless conversation. Stane stands motionless between Tony and Stephen and the dais, and some inherent confidence keeps him from looking awkward. It takes Stephen a moment to remember why he’s unsettled by that. It takes Stephen a moment to remember why he’s there at all.

He takes a long, deep breath and refocuses. This is an obstacle, an unfortunate situation—and obstacles are surmountable. Stephen can salvage this. He is a Revisionist; it’s his role to salvage this. As long as he holds on to what he knows and what he needs, there’s nothing that can trap him for long. 

But it doesn’t mean he can’t be  _ pissed off.  _

Stephen moves forward to stand beside Tony, the movement pointed and purposeful. The prince knows. He smirks. Shoulder to shoulder, they watch the monarchs study them in turn.

Howard looks at them, taps his fingers, and nods like everything makes sense. “So she sent a novice because she couldn’t come herself.”

Stephen closes his eyes. “I’m not a novice,” he says, very  _ very  _ evenly. “I am a records master esteemed for my control and the power of my Eye, having trained and excelled for years under the instruction of the Ancient One—who, need I remind you, has  _ no obligation  _ to help you or your government. The reason you don’t know me has nothing to do with my capabilities and everything to do with yours.” 

Stephen can’t keep himself from glancing at Maria. Tony, beside him, tenses. “You have erased and suppressed me and my people so thoroughly,” Stephen says, “that you’ve erased me from your memory as well.”

“You’re one to speak of erasing memory,” Maria says. She sounds almost surprised to hear the words, like she didn’t intend to voice them. Her hand traces the worn edge of her throne, and Stephen feels his feet centered through worn, snow-soiled boots. 

Stephen grits his teeth.  _ “You  _ brought me here.  _ You  _ went against everything you say you believe just as soon as it was convenient for you and ordered me here.  _ You  _ tore me from my timeline to rewrite your own. Not me.”

Tension crackles through the room as if the roar of some great beast accompanied Stephen’s voice. It renders Stephen immobile, locked between exasperation and judgment and fear and that quiet grief that still lingers so very stubbornly. Lantern light makes his shadow stretch too long to be natural. 

“I don’t believe now is the most productive time for this debate,” Stane tries to soothe. 

“I’m sure you don’t,” Stephen spits. “But you tried to take my Eye. You’ve bound my hands. You’ve insulted me and my culture and you’ve dismissed Tony’s life in favor of these exact politics. So  _ yes,  _ I think now is the only time for this debate.”

“You want to do this now?” Maria says. Her hand taps faster. “When my son’s life is on the line?”

Stephen lifts his chin. “You seem to have forgotten that I’m not the one who put it there.”

Beside Stephen, Tony mutters, “I am still here, you know.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Stephen whispers back. Anger makes his voice sharper than he intended. “Let me have this, alright?”

“I should be selling tickets…”

Howard sits back on his throne while Maria leans forward in hers. The violet and white fabric of her robes folds across her hands and between her knees. It’s light and exotic and so very different from what Stephen knows. Just as the fur-touched edges of his thick tunic is different from here.

“What are you hoping I say?” Maria asks. “I have been forthcoming with my opinions of your…  _ work  _ since I took the throne.”

“You ostracized us,” Stephen says. “For what, exactly?”

“For an unwillingness to compromise untrustworthy and unnatural values.”

Stephen snorts. “We like our seclusion, I will admit. But there is nothing unnatural about what the Order does.”

“You rewrite  _ entire lives,”  _ Maria says, shaking her head. Stephen has seen her expression before, many times—and it makes him even more determined, knowing this is what makes that distrust for who he is so widespread. The queen continues, “You interfere with what should be unquestionable and control the entirety of history and thought with an invisible grip. People are helpless to even perceive it.”

“No you aren’t.” Stephen jerks his chin. “A Revisionist cannot change a soul.”

“But you can change a fate. Which is all that matters in the end.”

“There is no  _ end,”  _ Stephen protests. “There is nothing but the world and what it needs to continue living, thriving, existing.”

Maria’s eyebrow creeps up, and it is so strikingly different from the way Tony had looked at him when Stephen had discussed this with him. “And you get to decide what it looks like. We have no choice, no chance to even fight. No chance to decide.”

Stephen scoffs. “What do you think I’m doing  _ right now,  _ your highness? It was you who decided this.”

“I have no way of knowing. I will never have the chance to.”

“So you would rather Tony was dead?” Stephen demands. “You would rather have burnt priceless knowledge in fire and lost your kingdom time and time over to war and disease and disaster?”

“I would rather know what my life, and the lives of my people,  _ truly look like.” _

“This!” Stephen catches himself before he raises his voice. “This  _ is  _ what your life truly looks like.”

“And who decides that?” Maria says. She gestures widely around her. “Because it certainly isn’t all of the millions of people whose lives are defined by the decisions you make without their input. They don’t even get to know a choice was made! Because you can See, you leave the rest of us completely blind.”

“In a choice between life and death, a human choses life,” Stephen argues. The pain in his hands has bit deep into his core, now, and he can’t shake it away. But it isn’t the ropes that remind him of fear, anymore. 

Instead, he hears hatred and wonders how far it leads. 

“It doesn’t change the fact that you choose for them. It isn’t  _ life  _ that makes a human; it is choice. Any  _ human  _ knows that.”

Bristling at the implication in the phrase, Stephen raises his chin. Before he can speak, however, Maria continues. She’s looking at Tony. “Any leader knows that, too.”

The prince looks at her. Looks at his father. He doesn’t look at Stephen, not even when silence stretches, not even when Stephen waits for a protest. Makes the mistake of believing he might be defended. 

Tony doesn’t say anything. 

He doesn’t say anything, and Stephen has been stripped so empty with pain and fear and anger that he can’t remember why. He forgets the faces of strangers, forgets how to read them without his Eye—the one that leaves him trussed up before eyes of judgment. He doesn’t know that the look on Tony’s face is anguish. Stephen hears silence and knows it means admission. 

“Right,” Stephen says, and his voice is barbed and cold. “You think a  _ choice  _ is what makes my people inhuman.”

“The lack of ours.”

Stephen snaps. “The timeline is not broken by our magic!” he yells, his voice hoarse and echoing. “It is  _ healed  _ by it! We protect your life so it can  _ become  _ what it is supposed to be, not tear it away from that fate.”

Maria’s eyes flashed. “Prove it.”

And there it was—the demand that the Order couldn’t face, the question that they couldn’t answer. Because no one had ever listened long enough to believe. Stephen ground his teeth and tried anyway. 

“We give you agency, your highness. You  _ have agency.  _ That’s why I’m here. It’s why any of us are here.”

“You say that,” Maria says, “but as soon as you step out of this room you will Revise the entirety of this morning from our timelines, against my wishes and my will. And I won’t even remember enough to be afraid. Tell me, is that what your people call agency?”

Something in Stephen’s chest burns. 

A sorcerer stands in a sprawling kingdom and tastes the faraway sun, and he remembers what he’s done for it, what it’s done for him. A sorcerer stands in a garnet-draped castle and doesn’t balk beneath the judgement of the royalty who rule the people he serves. A sorcerer smears red across the ropes that bind him and the heart that still beats between his ribs. And he knows there’s no fixing this, not for him.

Stephen turns on his heel and leaves.

{(●)}

Tony finds him in the clocktower. 

He doesn’t expect to have to look for Stephen, doesn’t expect to swallow down panic when he steps into the hall and finds it empty. Tony’s mind still rings with his father’s words, and the pain in his chest feels almost physical. Tony stumbles when the door slams behind him. The gauntlet of a suit of armor keeps him upright. 

Behind Tony, voices echo through the heavy doors. His parents are calling his name, ordering his return, fearing for his life and fearful of the man who’s supposed to save it. Their words are getting louder. Tony can’t stay. He can’t stay anywhere. 

Tony runs. 

He runs, his robes whipping behind him like the bloody wings of his family’s crest. No one follows him. No one dares. The sound of his steps are endless and hypnotizing, and Tony doesn’t stop. The throne room door is still slamming in his memory. The determination of his father and the mercilessness of King Howard. The grief of his mother and the distrust of Queen Maria. 

Tony doesn’t know how to reconcile it. It still robs his tongue of words and his lungs of breath. 

Tony finds him in the clocktower. 

The sunlight streams through the open tower and Tony stands in its heart. It blinds him. It strips him open and leaves him without shadows. The wind scatters fiery leaves round Tony’s feet, whistling through the clock’s gears and groaning against the hinge of the ancient bell. The air is cool where the sun is warm. It’s another thing Tony doesn’t know how to reconcile. 

Stephen sits with his head tilted up to rest against the glass face of the clock. His throat is bared to the empty space, his eyes closed against the light, his hands still twisted behind his back. The chain of his amulet gleams in the direct sun. 

Tony’s shadow stretches long when he moves. He feels weak with relief. He feels hollow with horror. He feels stunned with exhaustion.

“Stephen,” he says, and his voice sounds like a plea.

Stephen doesn’t open his eyes. “Your Highness,” he says flatly.

Tony kneels next to him. He pulls his dagger from his belt and lays it on the ground beside them. Then he reaches out to touch Stephen’s shoulder, refusing to make the mistake of assuming. He can feel the sorcerer trembling. 

“Can I touch your hands?” Tony asks.

Stephen flinches away from Tony with enough intensity to unbalance them both. It doesn’t seem voluntary. “No,” he says. “No, no no  _ no _ .”

Tony raises both his hands, sitting back. He leaves the dagger, leaves Stephen’s hands tied. He watches the sorcerer’s face and stubbornly refuses to glance at the raw welts that raise beneath Stephen’s fidgeting wrists. It would only take an instant to cut him free. Only an instant…

But Tony will not make that mistake. 

Stephen’s eyes slide half-open. He stares at the cut of sunlight against the dark stone walls. He doesn’t look like he’s seeing it—like he remembers how to see it. Tony is abruptly reminded of the first day of the Celebration, the way Stephen had watched the dancers like he wasn’t watching them at all. 

Tony is reminded of the sparkle of a jade Eye and scars. 

“You have nothing to prove to me,” Tony says quietly.

Voice hoarse, Stephen replies, “My people do.” 

“No.” Tony shakes his head. “Your people owe me nothing but the explanation I should have found myself—and maybe a chance to do right by them.”

Stephen’s dull eyes dart to him. “That’s not what you said.”

“When?”

Stephen looks away. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I know,” Tony whispers. “I know. I— I have to remember who I am to them, too.”

“The crown prince,” Stephen finishes. He sounds cold. “You have a role to play, and you played what you could.”

Tony winces. “I was scared,” he admits quietly.

A slight frown crinkles Stephen’s face. “What?”

“I was scared,” Tony says, louder this time. “And you paid for it. I’m sorry.”

Stephen pulls his head away from the clock, his fingers working inside their bindings. “Do you believe them?” he asks. “Do you think it’s wrong? Do you think  _ I’m  _ wrong?”

Tony knows what he’s asking. And he knows the answer, without question. “You aren’t a monster,” he says. “You are  _ good,  _ Stephen Strange. And your magic is, too.”

Something hard and sharp drains out of Stephen’s expression. It leaves the ragged edges of lifetime-old wounds in its place, and Tony wants to touch so badly it hurts. The gears of the clocktower click around them. It feels like a heartbeat, something so much bigger than anything Tony can fathom. 

“I’m sorry too,” Stephen says after a moment. “I heard what the king said to you. You shouldn’t have had to hear that because of me.”

Tony looks away.

Stephen straightens, like he can hear the doubt in Tony’s thoughts.  _ “You shouldn’t have,”  _ Stephen stresses again, and his eyes finally focus. Whatever he’s drawing strength from, Tony reaches for it too.

“Howard knows I’m not ready,” Tony tells him.

“Howard doesn’t get to decide,” Stephen snaps. “That’s for you and the people of Avelshi.”

“He’s my father,” Tony says, a little helplessly, and he hopes Stephen understands all the things it means and all the things it doesn’t—and all the questions he wishes it answered.

Stephen’s face softens. “And he’s wrong about you, Tony. He’s wrong about you, and he’s wrong about me.” 

Tony quirks a wobbly smile. “Careful there,” he says, “or you’ll be committing treason twice in one day.”

“That would be a record, even for me.” Stephen’s head tilts sideways, and the shadows fall away from his face. 

Tony reaches for the dagger again. He holds it so Stephen can see, holds it so the sturdy metal shines and the blade is promising. It’s an offer, not a threat.

“Can I touch your hands?” Tony asks again. 

Stephen’s face crumples—his whole form crumples, curling around itself like he’s trying to protect everything at once. He’s almost begging when he says, “Get it off me.”

Tony twines his fingers with Stephen’s, pulling the stiff and trembling limbs away from the sorcerer’s back. He cuts the rope with a single, swift movement. It’s speckled with blood and dust when Tony bunches it into his palm. He hurls it across the tower in a flash of vicious disgust. 

Stephen’s left hand goes straight for his Eye. The rattle in his breathing calms instantly, and something clears in his expression that Tony can only imagine the relief of. Watching the sorcerer’s fingers curve over the beautiful, wrought-metal amulet, Tony tastes smoke. He hates the ignorance that had made his father even  _ consider  _ taking it against the sorcerer's will. 

He reaches out and takes Stephen’s right hand. Gently, he turns it over to see the welts that wring Stephen’s wrists. Tony twins their fingers and presses his lips to the scars across Stephen’s knuckles. The sorcerer shivers. 

“I’m not going to let you die,” Stephen says. He leans against Tony, and Tony relaxes even if he shouldn’t.

The sun scatters patterns like constellations across the gears of the clock face behind them. Tony breathes in the air of the last day of his life and thinks it could be worse. Truly, it could be worse. 

_ I’m not going to let you die. _

Tony smiles. 

“Neither am I.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T h e m
> 
> We're getting closer to the end--I added one more chapter because I decided to split the fifth day and night into three parts instead of two. You know how it is when things get Intense (tm). >:)
> 
> Anyway, hope you liked! Smack that kudos button or send me a few words, and I'll see you soonish!


	10. The Fifth Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned! It's time for chapter ten, complete with planning, the return of Loki and Peter, a healthy dose of banter, and yet more fantasy politics. I hope you enjoy!

It isn’t long that Stephen and Tony sit in the glare of the clock’s hands and watch the city through the open walls. Not long at all. The emptiness doesn’t last, and neither does the silence. 

Stephen airs the skin on his wrists, and the cool wind feels pleasant against it. Tony’s head against his shoulder trails warmth throughout his entire body. His Eye lays heavy in his left palm, and Stephen’s spirit is an indecipherable mess of feeling. His head aches. His strategy for today has already fallen apart. But he still sits, still wastes these precious moments he should investigating to breathe. 

He looks down at the Eye in his palm when the sun slides down from its apex and the glare of the clock face lifts from Tony’s. Purposefully, he reaches for the remnants of what advantages he still has. Stephen weighs his options, and none of them are satisfying. 

He can get up now—get up, push away the events of the morning in favor of focus, and tell Tony everything he knows. They can work together, stretching attention over the castle as the Dynasty Celebration grows closer to its close. Perhaps with help, Stephen can assemble the proof he needs. 

There are gaping, abysmal holes in what he knows. The vital understanding is missing from Stephen’s accusation of Obediah Stane; the vital explanations are missing from his impression of the king and queen; and the vital identity is missing from the unknown prophecies. Stephen can’t help but feel that he is trying to read this story upside-down. 

He supposes it wouldn’t be impossible to confront Stane outright, but the idea is far from desirable. The most likely outcome is Stephen ending up dead—not an option if it occurs before Tony is safe. If he brings Tony… Stephen dismisses that thought before it can fully form. 

There is no point in trying to  _ probe  _ Stane anymore. He knows who Stephen is. He knows why he’s here. Everyone does. The knowledge lurks in the back of Stephen’s mind, reminding him off its undermining, disastrous presence every time he turns his head. 

Wong would say the mission is lost. He would tell Stephen to use his strength. He would remind him that there is no point in trying to keep one’s head afloat when the circumstances are drowning. There is no point in trying to keep the same timeline.

What are Stephen’s strengths?

Stephen closes his hand around his Eye. Tony straightens up beside him, turning a curious, suspicious gaze on him as Stephen tries to focus his thoughts enough to open his Eye. 

“What are you doing?”

“Jumping,” Stephen says firmly. 

“What?” Something like dismay flashes in Tony’s expression.

“I still have to prove what Stane intends to commit,” Stephen reminds him. He ignores the doubt that the advisor’s influence in the throne room that morning had sewn somewhere behind his spine. “And save your life. He knows who I am now; I’ve jeopardize the possibility of finding any more information. I might even have prompted him to fast-track his plans for this evening.”

Unacceptable, of course. Stephen  _ is  _ going to see tomorrow morning, and Tony is too. He doesn’t care how many timelines it takes.

How hypocritical he has to become. 

_ Tell me, is that what your Order calls agency? _

Stephen shakes the words from his mind and tries to focus. The Oaths of the Order scatter across his memory, and Stephen begins to recite them. He doesn’t get to finish.

“So you want to erase it?” Tony asks. “Everything that just happened?”

“Yes.” Stephen looks at him—and with his Eye so close to opening, he’s overly conscious of how blind he is. How little he can see of what Tony is feeling. 

“I don’t—I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

Stephen blinks. “Why in hell not?” he demands. “I can wipe away Stane’s anticipation, and the king and queen’s interference. We can still—we don’t have to—”

“Stephen.” Tony puts a hand on his knee, and Stephen sees the moment he remembers not to reach for Stephen’s wrists. “You can’t.”

“I am perfectly capable—”

“I mean you  _ shouldn’t,”  _ Tony stresses. “This might not be easy—hell, I wish I could forget the utter train wreck that was this morning. But what we learned, and what we  _ taught  _ was important. It’s vital that the event remains stable.”

He sounds so much like the Ancient One in that moment that Stephen is abruptly reminded of who Tony is—an heir, a  _ leader.  _ Tony hasn’t been idle. He’s thought these options through, too. 

“Why?” Stephen wonders.

Tony smirks at him, shoving at his shoulder playfully. “I thought you were the master of timelines here.”

Stephen glowers. “Excuse me for being  _ curious  _ as to why I don’t just nip the problem in the bud. You understand that a Jump means not just that everyone forgets—it means this morning  _ never happened.” _

“To anyone but you,” Tony says, his eyes darting to the raw skin of Stephen’s hands.

“So?”

Tony sighs. “Look,” he says. “My parents might be the opposite of  _ cordial _ , but they will still be helpful. And I think—what you said to my mother. I think it matters.”

Stephen snorted incredulously. “I was throwing snowballs at a cliff face.”

“Well, first of all,” Tony said, looking genuinely amused, “that’s not an idiom. And secondly, Mom is… not intransigent, not like Howard. You can’t convince her right away, of course, but you  _ can  _ convince her. And you’ve been laying seeds for days, now; not Jumping, even when she practically dared you, practically manipulated you, will make those sprout.”

“That’s not an idiom either.”

“I’m the crown prince.” 

Stephen snorts, turning his hand over so he can shove at Tony where they still sit shoulder to shoulder. “This isn’t a right I agreed to transfer to you under the promise of economic stability.”

“Your ancestors did. ‘Complete authority over use of analogies in Avelshi’, that’s me.”

“Vishanti help us.”

Tony pulls his knees up and shifts so he’s kneeling, one simple motion from springing to his feet. “You understand my point, though.”

Stephen looked down at the Eye in his hand, the chain that tickled his forearm. “I think you’re grasping at straws.”

“Maybe,” Tony sighs, his shoulders hiking slightly. “I just… it all went so wrong, Stephen. I know what I should have said, what I  _ needed  _ to say, but now it’s too late.”

“I can give us a second chance,” Stephen says. He hears earnestness, more than anger, tinging his tone, and he doesn’t try to hide it. 

Tony smiles ruefully at him. He untangles his fingers from Stephen’s and lays his hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “I don’t want one. I want to fix this, not erase it.”

“They’re the same thing.”

“Maybe to you,” Tony says without judgment. “Maybe to your people. And maybe you’re right. But this time—this time, try it my way.”

Stephen gropes dubiously for understanding. “We don’t  _ need  _ to do this. It’s part of the mission. It’s part of the Oaths. A Jump is justified, encouraged.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s the best choice,” Tony says. 

“This isn’t—this isn’t me wishing I could undo an embarrassing comment I made to the novice.” Stephen tries to clamp down on his frustration, but he’d tired and hurt and stretched to the very limits of his patience. He sounds pissed anyway. “This is me trying to save your  _ life.  _ They all know now, Tony. There’s no secret anymore.”

“I understand,” Tony says. He doesn’t back down. “But a setback isn’t always an obstacle. We can salvage this.”

“We don’t  _ have to.” _

“I’m saying it’s better this way!” Tony stands, his hands waving. “It’s better that they know—because now there’s no question, no more  _ waiting.” _

Stephen blinks.

“Oh,” he says.

Tony rubs his face. “I just… I’ll forget, if you go back. I’ll forget everything I learned this morning— _ we  _ learned—and I don’t want to be ignorant. Not today. Not when it’s so close…”

The movement is quick, but Stephen still sees him glance at the clock. The hours are sliding between their grip, so fast, too fast. 

“We can still fix this,” Tony says, and it’s almost desperate. 

Stephen feels himself lose, and it makes everything that much sharper. His hands curl in toward his chest, stinging. 

“Now who’s being intransigent,” he mutters. Tony smiles. 

“It’s my specialty.” 

He offers Stephen his hand, letting Stephen grip his forearm instead of taking Stephen’s wrist, and they both wander a little closer to the center of the tower. Stephen has the strange impression that he’s almost fleeing the shadows that stretch around them. His steps distracted, Tony leans out over the edge of the balcony. The sun inlays his profile in gold. 

He looks so invincible, standing there with the battlements of the castle framed by the curve of his chin. For a moment, Stephen believes it. How beautiful this man is, how captivating with his time limit. 

“We should find Peter and Loki,” Tony says. He squints into the glare of the clock face and catches Stephen staring; he smiles.

Because they knew too. And they were… allies. Friends. “If you say so.”

Tony strides back across the space, and Stephen follows after a moment of consideration. Waiting for him on the second stair, Tony talks as if to himself, and Stephen allows himself the comfort in just listening. They drop through the tower together. They bring the wind and the sun with them, and bustle greets them in the halls beneath. 

Stephen doesn’t remember how he made it to the clocktower. He doesn’t remember who saw him, who tried to stop him, who called out to him in concern or suspicion. Perhaps nobody. Now the servants and court nobles watch him with the same calculating interest they had during Celebration nights. Like nothing has changed. It’s comforting, and Stephen walks with a flare of confidence beside the crown prince.

“Where’s the little lawless duo, then?” Stephen asks. Tony leads him around the rounded pillars of an archway and into one of the courtyards. They avoid the throne room. 

“Up to no good, I can only imagine.” Tony casts his gaze around the area.

Stephen lets Tony draw ahead. He picks out a nearby servant who’s whistling as he works above the stones of the fountain. Hiding his blistered wrists behind his back, Stephen just barely catches himself before he greets the servant in Order customs. Instead, he bows.

“Hello,” he says. “Might you be able to point me in the direction the Frost Prince took last?”

The servant snorts. “How could I have missed it? Go ‘round to the West side. You can’t miss them.”

“Thanks.”

Stephen trots back up to Tony, tapping him on the shoulder. They swerve along the garden path to sweep alongside the edge of the castle. Instinctively, Stephen keeps Tony and the crowds between himself and the windows he knows light the great hall and throne room. Tony notices. He doesn’t say anything. The confidence of his stride stalls anyway.

Stephen gives into the urge to pull his sleeves over his wrists, and tries not to focus too much on how much easier it is. The clear-cut grass of the courtyard winds and fades into the maze-trimmed hedges and creeping, late blooming flowers of the castle gardens. Stephen rolls his shoulders back and scans the red leaves that reach toward the sky. He smells earth and dust and ripening. The old, shaped plants spread their final acceptance of winter. It’s peaceful in the way only time can be.

Stephen wonders how long until the first Kamar-Taj snow. He wonders if the people in the city can taste the cold wind when it whisks in from the mountains, long dry of snow.

Maybe he’ll find out for himself someday.

When Tony and Stephen step around the edge of the castle wall and into the westward sun, the atmosphere goes from peaceful to eager. They’re noticed before they can even blink the gold light out of their eyes. 

“Your Highness!” Peter calls, waving a hand coated waxy with mud. “And Strange!”  
“What in Vishanti’s name are you doing?” Tony asks. One hand is raised over his eyes to shield them from the glare. 

“Negotiating,” Loki says. 

Stephen isn’t completely ignorant of Asgardian politics, but he has no idea what the rivulets of water gathering between the cobblestones can possibly have to with the treaties. He shoots Tony a questioning glance. 

The prince is watching Peter and Loki with an expression halfway between confused and amused. “They let you choose the exchange?  _ You?” _

Loki shrugs. “Thor is permitted to participate as well.”

Peter, who’s recognized Stephen’s confusion, elaborates cheerfully. “The Asgardians trade art alongside governmental compromises,” he says. “And this one, apparently, involves rocks.”

“They all involve rocks,” Tony grumbles. “You Asgardians and your gold.”

“That’s far from important this day,” Loki says. He waves a dismissive arm and stands, smoothing the folds of his tunic back into something orderly and sharp. Peter wipes his hands on the grass. 

“You look like you haven’t slept in days.” Peter frowns at Tony.

The prince grimaces, rubbing a hand over his face. “Stephen and I had a bit of an  _ encounter  _ this morning,” he says.

Loki cocks his head. “Oh?” His eyes glint, and Stephen can’t tell if it’s with interest, mischief, or concern. 

“I got arrested,” Stephen says simply. 

Peter and Loki stare at him. He doesn’t elaborate.

“Congratulations,” Loki says. He draws a line through the muddy ground with the toe of his boot. 

“Are you okay?” Peter asks. His eyes flicker between Tony and Stephen, and Stephen gets the feeling he knows exactly what they faced in the king’s anger. Maybe he does. Maybe he can read it in the way Tony and Stephen stand a little closer, the way Stephen tangles his fingers in the cuff of his shirt to hold it down over his wrist. 

Stephen answers his question with another. “Is there anything I need to know about the last night of the Celebration? Any traditions, any obligations, anything?”

“Nothing that matters,” Tony replies. Peter looks like he might protest—and then his gaze falls on the jewelry chain around Stephen’s neck, and he stays silent.

“Everything matters right now,” Stephen says curtly. 

“So you haven’t discovered the would-be murderer,” Loki drawls. Stephen gets the feeling that he’s being judged. 

“We have,” he says, at the same moment Tony agrees, “we haven’t.”

They frown at each other. Loki raises and eyebrow, and Peter shifts awkwardly on his feet. He sounds hesitant, like he doesn’t want to voice the words, but he still asks, “who?”

Tony sighs. “We don’t have any proof.”

“So what?” Loki sounds personally offended by the statement. He points a finger at Stephen and orders, “Stab the suspect, and if the prince still dies, try again.”

Stephen’s jaw clenches with the effort of reminding himself he’s among allies. “Not an option,” he bites out. “I’m not going to kill like it doesn’t matter.”

Loki jerks his chin toward Tony. “If it’s to keep him alive, why not?”

Loki wears his amulet proudly, questionless. Stephen’s is still tucked away, still hidden, and Stephen wants to lay into Loki with a weapon he doesn’t have, with fists still sore and aching from the bite of rope. Brittle edges turn his words sharp. 

“Because I’m  _ human _ ,” Stephen snarls. “Is that really so hard to believe? Is it really so fucking  _ shocking  _ that I understand the general morality of sentience?”

He’s so tired of this. So tired of explaining that he isn’t different, isn’t other, isn’t unnatural. He’s tired of hearing ignorance and carelessness and  _ hate _ . Stephen is tired of standing beneath the stigma of an entire world and justifying his people, pleading for a world that can’t look past difference to let him help them, let him save them. 

Why does it have to be so hard to be nothing more than who he is?

“I’m not going to kill anyone,” Stephen says quietly. All the anger drains from his voice, and it leaves nothing behind.

_ The Order has its oaths, its respect for time and history and  _ life.  _ This is what set us apart from the sorcerers who go dark, Stephen, from the monsters we must always prove we’re not. _

“I’m not going to kill anyone.”

Not again.

{(●)} 

Tony’s not sure how he feels about the way time has begun to sit within his mind. He’s not sure if he’s unnerved by the…  _ presence  _ it’s started to develop, the personification he can’t help create from the way Stephen refers to it and from the situation that faces him now. 

Time is a slithering thing, a mischievous thing. It dances by his grasping fingers, sending him reading and looking and talking and spying and finding nothing at all that matters. Tony’s started to think of time as something he can track down, something he can outrun. But he hasn’t been able to. None of them have been able to.

Tony hears the laugh, the unstoppable and constant laugh of time, as Stephen spends an hour trying and failing to find Obediah in the library, and then in his quarters, and then in the Throne Room. Tony spends almost four hours charming guards and servants. He avoids his parents until he can’t anymore, and Stephen swallows the frustration Tony can see frosting his hands and his eyes and approaches nobles and Asgardians. Loki and Peter disappear to sift through things they shouldn’t see and overhear things they shouldn’t.

And they find nothing. 

Nothing, nothing,  _ nothing— _ it sings in Tony’s mind, taunting and playful. The only noble even close to helpful is Coulson’s nephew. Talking with him only serves to leave Tony more panicked and painfully aware of the secrets his parents are keeping, even now that there might not be anyone to keep them from. 

They don’t call off the Celebration. Tony had only expected such. This is the game, the battle fought beneath pristine, exquisite exteriors. It’s theater. Tony understands perfectly how to star. 

Stephen doesn’t, and it says everything when he stops trying to hide it, stops pretending to be civil to the court members, and stops biting back scathing remarks to nobles. It’s refreshing in a way Tony hadn’t thought it would be. If he dies tonight, someone will have spent the day terrified about it. Someone would have spent the day angry and announced it to the  _ entire world,  _ and Tony takes comfort in the one damn thing in his life that isn’t an act. 

Stephen pulls him behind an open door when the evening sun slants into their eyes without warning. He wraps his arms around Tony and holds on. The sharp edges of his face press into Tony’s shoulder, and the prince takes a breath that falters, just slightly, on the exhale.

“We’re not going to find Stane,” Stephen says. He doesn’t pull back. “Not until tonight.”

Tony brings a hand between them to rub at his chest. He knows exactly what Stephen means.  _ Until he acts. _

Tony sighs and leans his forehead against Stephen’s shoulder. “I know,” he says. 

“It’s him, Tony.”

“I know.”

Shaking fingers, scraped and swollen from this morning, tilt Tony’s head up. “I’m sorry,” Stephen says. He smirks ruefully. “Being murdered is never a great way to end a holiday, but being murdered by your friend and mentor is unequivocally worse.”

Tony forces himself to shrug. “Hey,” he says. “At least I got a puzzle out of it.”

“Better to know?”

Stephen’s asking so much more than that, affirmation on the risks he’s taken and the gambles he’s made.  _ Was I right to tell you, that night?  _ asks the set of Stephen’s jaw, the way his eyes keep darting to the door, the protective cant of his wrists. 

“Of course,” Tony answers. 

Stephen nods. 

Tony’s gaze flickers down to where Stephen holds his hands so carefully still against what must be pain and swallows. “You know Loki didn’t mean it,” he says. 

Stephen huffs. “I know,” he grumbles. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed.”

“It’s not his fault he didn’t train with the Order. He should’ve. His father… hell, I used to think Odin did it to protect him, but he didn’t; he robbed Loki of what could have been a gift. Stole him.”

“Doesn’t mean he gets to be a dick about it.”

Tony chuckles, tapping twice on Stephen’s shoulder when the man sways back slightly. “That’s just how he is.”

“Yeah, I know. Vishanti damn me for  _ liking  _ the man. I just…” Stephen thew his hands up. “I was angry. I heard what he said and I could only think about all the  _ other  _ things I’ve heard that make me feel less than human, and usually I can ignore them but I’m just—” He trails off. 

“Fed up,” Tony finishes. 

“Yeah.” Stephen shrugs, and Tony sees blood on his collar and wonders how it got there. “It’s not like Peter or Loki or you have some sort of obligation to know everything about my quite alien and isolated people. Vishanti knows I don’t know everything about yours. But I… yeah.”

“There’s only so much mislabeling you can take in a day?”

Stephen’s lip lifts. “Yeah,” he sighs. “You could say that.”

“If it helps,” Tony says, “Peter and Loki would be grateful for anything you could teach them about Revisionists. Peter especially. He’s fascinated by you guys.”

And it does seem to help, at least a little, because Stephen smiles and says, “well, I’m always happy to indulge a little curiosity.”

Tony nods. The back of his mind is already spinning with ways to make that happen, to find what moments of peace will be available to them in the chaos that will no doubt follow tonight. “What are you going to do?” he asks. “About Stane?”

Stephen steps back, running a hand over his face and digging his fingernails into his scalp. “I’m not going to go looking. He’ll come find me, if he expects to have any chance of getting through this without being caught. The king and queen are looking, now, after all. We certainly aren’t going to make this easy for Stane.”

“And when he does come looking?”

Stephen shrugs. “My word against his isn’t damnable. But if I can stop him, that’s proof enough. I incapacitate the man—do not give me that look, I am quite capable of knocking  _ you  _ unconscious—and we leave imprisonment or punishment to your parents.”

Tony grins, raising his hands. “Alright, alright,” he says. “ _ Now  _ you start remembering that separation of powers legislation?”

Stephen rolls his eyes. “Maybe I just deserve a good nap after all this dealing with hazards.”

“Yes, criminals can be rather exhausting.”

Stephen raises an eyebrow. “Who said anything about criminals?”

Tony laughs, swatting his arm and ducking away from Stephen’s returning poke. “I thought you said you’d had enough treason for one day!”

“That was this morning. I had a whole day of putting up with high-class, stuck-ass noblemen to give me back my motivation to burn this kingdom to the ground.”

Tony whistles. “I can’t even argue with you, there.”

“This is why we make such a good team,” Stephen says, and he has the nerve to wink. “You can get away with a hell of a lot more before someone pulls the treason card.”

“And what skills are you contributing to this imaginary regime-toppling scheme?”

“I’m the mastermind, obviously.”

Tony gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Excuse me?  _ Who’s  _ the brains of this operation?”

“I’m not the one who got myself killed. By an old man, no less!”

Tony snorts. He waves a dismissive hand, brushing against Stephen’s collar as he does. Ducking around the sorcerer, he takes a few steps into the room. “It was in an alternate reality,” he says. “Doesn’t count.”

“According to who?”

“The only person who has any legitimately recognized authority around here. Oh right, it’s  _ me. _ The  _ crown prince.” _

Stephen smirks. He turns around himself as Tony circles in order to keep them facing each other. “Separation of powers, remember?  _ Reality  _ is almost certainly under my coat of arms.”

“You think you’re smart, throwing a politician’s words back at him?”

“I’m brilliant,” Stephen says, and grins. 

Tony grabs the grimy fold of his collar and pulls him down to kiss him. The little exhale of surprise that Stephen makes against his lips makes Tony tangle his fingers into the fabric until he brushes warm skin. Rocking back against the door, Stephen’s weight latches it shut. Tony braces a knee on the wood and grins languidly. 

Stephen aligns their mouths, their gazes, even when he pulls away to catch that breath again. Tony doesn’t think he realizes he’s doing it. It’s strange, special, how intense it is when Stephen locks eyes with him. Like  _ looking  _ is the deepest connection Stephen can offer. And he does so freely.

Tony spreads a hand against Stephen’s collarbone and looks back.

“I’m definitely in the mood for treason,” Stephen says. His voice is rough. His tongue darts across his lips. 

“Good.”

Stephen pulls Tony closer, bracing them both against the door. He plays with their mouths for a delighted moment, teasing at angles until Tony can taste nothing but his breath, then kisses him slowly. Heavily.  _ Thoughtfully,  _ in a way only Stephen seems to be able to, like he’s marveling at every moment.

There really are worse ways to spend his last evening alive. 

Tony pushes the Revisionist, the man from a world he shouldn’t have ever been able to touch, against the door and reaches up to kiss him back. He doesn’t think this is his last evening alive. He truly doesn’t— and even if he did, there was no way he’d have accepted it. There are too many things he wants to do, to see, to learn, so many things he wants to change given the chance. He wants to make that chance. 

There are promises he made. He doesn’t intend to break them by dying tonight. 

Tony slides his hand across Stephen’s collar, over his shoulder and along the soft skin of his neck. He memorizes the arc of Stephen’s teeth against his lip. Tony’s eyes are closed, but he can feel the sorcerer’s gaze on him. Looking, just looking. The links of the chain around Stephen’s neck press patterns into the skin of Tony’s palm. Tony threads them between his fingers.

Stephen edges away after a moment. He keeps a hair's breadth of space between them, nothing more, a tiny gap that’s torturous until Tony realizes. He watches the lids of Stephen’s eyes flicker as he just stands there, flush between Tony’s body and the door, and tastes Tony’s breath along his skin. 

A heartbeat passes, leisurely and unhurried. Stephen’s iridescent eyes flicker up to meet Tony’s. He presses his forehead forward, knocking their noses together. Tony wrinkles his. Stephen huffs a laugh, and it’s hot and wet and close. 

“You’re stunning,” Tony says. He pulls at the chain of Stephen’s eye, gathering it against palm. Stephen’s hand in his hair keeps the prince’s circlet secure. 

“Hm.” 

“Just thought I’d let you know,” Tony continues. 

Stephen tugs teasingly against his hair. He says, “I appreciate it.”

“Indescribable, even.” Tony loops his other hand around Stephen’s lower back and pulls him into another kiss. It’s all Tony, this time, all the press of his jaw to lead Stephen open, all the swipe of his tongue across the tops of the sorcerer’s upper teeth, all a gentle intrusion and easy dance. When he pulls away, Stephen’s beaming. 

Tony doesn’t know how Stephen does that. He’s never seen anyone who can smile like that, anyone who can light up so completely. Anyone who could smile like that because of Tony.

“In Kamar-Taj, we celebrate the harvest too,” Stephen says suddenly.

Tony lays his head on his shoulder. “Oh?”

“Hm. It’s not about the plenty, not like the Dynasty Celebration, and it happens sooner. When the night and day meet, we mark the cycle of time, and every Eye that has ever or will ever manifest blinks at the same moment.”

“Really?”

Stephen looks down at Tony, his mouth curved up. “No,” he says, “but that’s the story. Plus it’s the last time in the godforsaken year you’re ever warm in the Far Reaches.”

Tony laughs. “Yeah, enjoy your frozen water, mountain man.”

“I do, thank you.”

Tony braces both hands on the door on either side of Stephen’s torso and looks at him. “You have a plan.” 

Stephen doesn’t have to ask him what for. “Yes,” he says. 

“Are you lying to me?”

“I wouldn’t.”

Tony rolls his eyes even as he presses up to kiss Stephen again. “Literally all you had to say was no,” he says.

Stephen smirks. “But then you wouldn’t have done  _ that _ .”

“You don’t know that. I’m entirely unpredictable.”

“Time wizard,” Stephen says flatly, pointing at himself. He reaches out to straighten the circlet on Tony’s hair. Then he wriggles out from between Tony’s hands. Tony tugs at his collar one more time for good measure, relishing the way Stephen’s still so adorably pink. 

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Tony replies. He sighs, turning around to lean back against the door. The wood is warm. “Do you want to check Obie’s rooms again? Loki would be all too happy to pick the lock a third time.”

Stephen shakes his head. “If we didn’t find the prophecies this afternoon, we aren’t going to find them now. And even if I find every weapon in the palace, all he needs is a sharp object.”

Tony huffs. “I’m not  _ completely  _ helpless, you know.”

“I know!” Stephen raises his hands. “I’m just saying.”

Sighing, Tony rubs his hand over the hem of his disheveled robes. He tries to hang onto the effervescent feeling in his chest, but he’s never been good at controlling his thoughts. The dark ones tinge the edge of his mind. He thumps his head back against the door and groans, all too aware of the time. The Celebration is already upon them, even if Tony doesn’t want to acknowledge it. The fifth night. 

He can’t avoid it. Neither can he avoid the events of this morning, the parents he’s left fearful of his fate and has artfully circumvented for the rest of the day.

It’s not like they don’t know he’s in the castle, that he’s fine. Tony would be surprised if a specific servant hadn’t been tailing him for the entirety of his investigation. 

“I need to get ready,” he says. He forgets for an instant Stephen doesn’t speak court code and gets a confused look.

“I need to talk to my parents,” Tony clarifies. “Before the Celebration.”

Stephen looks away. “Right.”

The residual defensiveness in his stance, just from  _ thinking  _ about this morning, reminds Tony of the other revelation Howard had wrung from Tony’s Revisionist a few hours ago. There’s something else Tony has to say, and he searches hesitantly for the words to even bring it up. He’s afraid he doesn’t understand. He’s terrified he’ll get it wrong—which is why he has to ask anyway.

He’s running out of time to, after all. 

“Stephen,” Tony says carefully. “About this morning. You said… the Ancient One. She was attacked?”

Stephen goes rigid. A wall snaps down over his expression, locking out even Tony, and if it wasn’t for the door pressing against him, Tony would’ve taken a step back. Three. 

“ _ That _ is an Order secret,” Stephen says. There are shards of steel in his voice, and Tony is almost afraid they’re truly directed at him. 

“It’s already revealed,” Tony reminds him quietly.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Stephen tucks his hands into the sleeves of his robes, too long because he didn’t know to roll them up in the fashion of the alien people that surround him, and raises his eyes to stare at nothing. “I shouldn’t have said that this morning,” he says flatly. “It was a betrayal I shouldn’t have allowed.”

“You were forced,” Tony says. “But if the Ancient One—” 

Stephen cuts him off. “You won’t ask about it again.”

A pause. Tony looks at the sorcerer, reminded yet again of the magic that warps and twists around him. 

He nods. “Okay,” Tony says. “I understand.”

Maybe, on another day, in another situation, he might’ve probed. But Stephen’s had his culture and boundaries disrespected and destroyed enough. Tony lets the subject go. 

But that doesn’t mean he can’t see the guilt cracking through Stephen’s mask, and it doesn’t mean his heart doesn’t ache.

“Come on,” Stephen says. His shoulders relax, like he’s forcing them. “You have to get ready.” 

{(●)} 

Loki finds Stephen sitting on the castle wall, his legs dangling off the side of a parapet and his chin braced in one hand. Stephen fidgets. He’s been uneasy since Tony ducked away to the throne room, uneasy since the prince left his sight. The cold stone beneath his thighs and the wind helps, but not enough to keep Stephen’s thoughts skewing toward the castle.

Maybe he should’ve gone with Tony. Even if the thought of entering the throne room, empty aside from the king and queen again, makes his hands shake all the harder. Maybe Stephen should’ve gone with him. 

The wind carries the sound of Loki’s footsteps to Stephen. He looks up from the rooftops of the city beyond the palatial complex to watch Loki approach, the Asgardian’s black clothes blending into the falling shadows of the night. No stars shine tonight.

“Hi, Loki,” Stephen says.

Loki grunts his acknowledgement, leaping up onto the edge of the wall to stand beside Stephen. His loose tunic whips around his arms like wings. 

Stephen half expects Peter to clamber over the side of the wall and join them, but he doesn’t appear. Turning a raised eyebrow on Loki, Stephen asks, “what is it?” 

Looking out toward the city, Loki flicks his fingers. “It was my intention to apologize.”

Stephen almost falls off the wall. “What?”

“Peter informed me it might be necessary,” Loki grumbles. “But I recognize his logic. You have been nothing but respectful to me, which is… unusual. I am not often considered as a sorcerer, let alone understood.”

Stephen snorts, tapping the stones beside him. “Yes, I’ve learned that’s pretty uncommon in royal courts.”

“Yes. So.” Loki scuffs his foot on the wall. “Your acceptance was appreciated. I did not mean to disrespect you in return.”

Stephen glances up at him, expression indiscernible in the gloom. He smiles a bit. “Thanks, Loki.” 

“Hm.”

Stephen looks back over the wall, thinking about that morning. He’s never met Odin, but from what he’s gathered, he wouldn’t like him. Not that Stephen makes an effort to like people, of course. It’s not in his job description. 

“I can’t imagine growing up away from the Order,” Stephen says. “Especially in a place like this. It would be unreasonable of me to be pissed at you for not knowing something you were never taught.”

“The Oaths,” Loki guesses.

“Yeah. They’re just—you know. Rules. Values. Time travel has consequences.  _ Prophecy  _ has consequences.” 

Loki smirks. “Yes, I’ve gathered that.”

“Do you wish your family had shipped you off to the Far Reaches?” Stephen asks. He knows it’s probably an insensitive question, but he doesn’t really care. 

Loki shrugs. His hand darts up to trace the design of his necklace, looping and sharp-edged, and Stephen wonders if he wishes he could open it. If he’s considering opening it. It’s only the two of them, after all. 

Loki says, “I am powerful without the Order, you know. There is plenty I have learned on my own.”

“I never said there wasn’t,” Stephen assures. “Transfer rituals are difficult.”

“Not simply that. The mere act of having an Eye is enough to shield one from the manipulation of magic and the attacks of Revision. The only thing that can fight back against time is time.”

“True,” Stephen agrees. “Even if you can’t jump through time, with your Eye as a tool, it’s still a shield.”

Loki jerks his chin. “My words exactly.”

A little curious, Stephen turns to face him. “Have you ever encountered another sorcerer before?”

Loki hums. The wind blows his hair into his face, but the Asgardian doesn't seem to mind. In the streets beyond the wall, a few lanterns flicker on in cottage windows, constructed of lace paper in bright colors. They’re prism lights turned upward for the last day of the Dynasty Celebration, and they make Stephen think of stained glass.

“I’ve seen the Ancient One,” Loki says, and it yanks Stephen’s attention back to him. “She was in audience with my father. I wasn’t  _ strictly  _ supposed to be there.”

“When?” Stephen asks with a frown. He can’t remember a time when the Ancient One visited Asgard within Loki’s lifetime—but then again, he might not have lived that version of the timeline. 

“I believe she was pursuing a rogue Revisionist.” Loki shrugs. “He’d fled to our hills by her estimate, but we had little to offer in terms of assistance. She left quickly.”

“Right,” Stephen says. Something tickles at the back of his mind, a name, but he can’t put his finger on it. “Did you speak to her about your Eye?”

Loki shakes his head. “No. I do…” He trailed off.

“Wish that you had?” Stephen prompted.

“Perhaps.” Loki makes another noncommittal noise, dropping his hand from the chain of his Eye and looking at Stephen. “But it wouldn’t have been permissible by my father.”

Stephen raises an eyebrow. “Since when does that bother you?”

Loki huffs. He brushes his tunic out from where it’s tangled around his arms and sits down on the wall. Stephen’s grateful; his neck was starting to get sore.

“I used to be slightly better at following orders,” Loki says.

Stephen raises a hand. “That makes one of us.”

Loki doesn’t look amused. “Does it?” he says. “You have your Oaths. Your mentor who you allow to direct your actions.”

Stephen almost laughs outright at that. “The Ancient One? I do what the Ancient One says because I trust her. And I follow my Oaths because they protect what I find important. There’s no ‘direction’ to it.”

“I suppose.”

“But yes,” Stephen says, “I’ll admit, I do have slightly more inclination to do what I’m told than you seem to have.”

Loki preens like he’s been complimented. “Indeed.”

“Your father sounds annoying,” Stephen says lightly. “But at least you were able to cultivate some magic.”

“Yes.” Loki kicks his legs against the side of the wall, an even rhythm of threes. “Ever since I was a small child, I’ve been learning. I manifested my Eye when I was four.”

Stephen’s eyes fly to him, an impressed whistle lifting into the air between them. The wind almost carries it away. “Damn,” Stephen says. “You were young. But I guess you wouldn’t have had much to compare it to. The kids at Kamar-Taj are always bragging or bullying each other about it.”

Loki snorts. “I certainly bullied my brother in that manner. When did your Eye appear?”

For just a moment, Stephen hesitates. He trails his fingers over the rope burns on his hands. “When I was nine,” he says. He changes the subject, perhaps a little quickly. “Was your brother jealous?”

Loki smirks, all teeth and glinting eyes. “Of course,” he says. “Then distraught when he learned Revisionists converge to the mountains. He thought I might actually be sent away.”

“He sounds like he cared.”

“Yes.” Loki’s voice gets a little quiet. “He did.”

They’re quiet, for a long moment. Stephen rests both elbows on his knees and stares at the streets as the sun sinks even lower. He doesn’t know Thor, not beyond what Tony and Peter have told him, but it makes him think, dangerously, of his own sibling. It makes him think of summers in grain fields and horseshoes. Images of horizons, so distantly ethereal. Those memories are more unreal than anything he’s experienced in Revision, anything rewritten by the Communal Timeline, no matter how often. 

Loki’s unsheathed his knife. He taps it against the stone, slow and thoughtful. Stephen’s so caught up listening to it that he jumps when the low note of a fiddle tuning leaps through the air. Night is fully upon them. 

Stephen swivels where he sits to look up at the clocktower. He swears he can hear its gears turning, and this time he finds it more encouraging than taunting. 

Tonight, Stephen’s going to complete his mission.

He stands, careful not to lose his balance on the parapet, and steps down onto the flat length of the wall. Tony’s been alone with the king and queen long enough, in Stephen’s opinion, and Stane is still missing. If the Celebration is beginning, the adviser is going to show up any moment. And Stephen truly does have a plan. 

On the wall, Loki’s tapping stops. He glances up and swiftly stands as well. Looking at him, Stephen feels the weight of his Eye a little more consciously. 

“You know you can ask me,” Stephen finds himself saying. 

“What?”

Stephen gestures a little vaguely, colored lantern glows dancing up from the streets on his right and warm torchlight bathing the courtyard on his left. “Those things you wish you’d asked the Ancient One? That you wish you knew about magic? You can ask me.”

Loki looks taken aback. Looks hesitant. Then he smiles at Stephen—the first time Stephen has seen him smile without his icy defense, the first time he’s seen him without fangs. He looks human. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

{(●)} 

Tony had thought maybe he could do this. 

He’d thought that perhaps, by some miracle, he’d be able to get through this conversation. That he’d be able to explain, concisely and tightly, his priorities and his discoveries. Tony wouldn’t apologize, but he’d be civil. He’d be patient. He’d be the prince he was supposed to be and the king he knew he could be. 

But when he stands in the Throne Room for the second time that day, all he can remember is the satisfaction on Howard’s face when Stephen had broken and told him about the Ancient One. Knowing he’d won. Knowing he’d found weakness.

Vishanti, Tony wants to sock him in his insufferable face. 

“Tony,” Maria says when the door shuts and reveals his presence. She stands. She sounds relieved. 

“Mom,” Tony replies. There’s barely contained anger in his tone, but the queen doesn’t flinch from them. She has more to worry about than his anger. 

“Two hours,” she says.  _ “Two hours.” _

Tony knows she means until the Celebration and his supposed death, but he still drawls, “I’ve been gone a lot longer than that.” He’s goading, and it’s thick enough in the air to condense on his skin. “Maybe it’s because I had to find my only chance of living through tonight and talk him back to reality so I could free him from the ropes you tied around his crippled and chronically pained hands, but hey, maybe I was overreacting.”

“And are you?” Howard stands behind his throne, his hands resting lightly on the back. “Going to live through tonight?”

“Yep, I am,” Tony says cheerfully, sliding his hands into his pockets and bowing slightly. “I’ll be alive and kicking in time for a nice long reign, in case you care.”

“Don’t,” Maria sighs. “We care, Tony. I know you’re angry, but please— _ we care.” _

Tony starts walking, one wide arc around the empty floor of the room. He thinks there might be blood on the tile. He thinks his steps are striking enough to crack through bone. “Damn right I’m angry,” he says easily. “I’m so fucking angry I’m not even terrified, which is saying something.” 

“We are,” Maria says. “Scared, that is. And you didn’t help by running away after we’d only just—”

“Only just what?” Tony interrupts. He looks at Howard, who’s voice had been so very civil in all the most ingenunine ways, and sneers. “Only just learned I was going to die? Or only just tore apart the Revisionist who’s done  _ nothing  _ but follow your orders and keep me alive?”

“That man never followed a single decree I gave,” Howard says, “but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point? Why don’t you spell it out for me?” Tony asks, his tone shifting abruptly back to something innocent. He paces the arc in front of the dais, his hands curled into fists at his sides, and thinks he can feel every beautifully,  _ considerately  _ carved Eye in every corner of stone and wood watching him. He feels ashamed beneath their calculation.

Tony had thought maybe he could do this. 

“What is so difficult to understand about this?” the king demands. “It’s your life, Anthony; we’re only trying to save it.”

“So is Stephen,” Tony says. 

Howard continues like he hadn’t spoken. “All we want is the information you’ve been keeping so we can piece together all we don’t know, and figure out how to keep you safe.”

_ ‘I have to keep you safe,’  _ says Howard’s voice in Tony’s memory, over the thunderclap sounds of Obediah’s footsteps. Over the pulse of Tony’s own heart in his ears as Stephen stumbled away from what might as well be a weapon raised upon him. Over any remaining wish to be civil Tony might still be clinging to.

“I don’t care,” Tony says. 

“Anthony.”

_ “I don’t care.  _ It’s far too late for you’re involvement to make a difference anyway.”

Howard raises an eyebrow the slightest tick. Tony mirrors the movement, though he doesn’t stop pacing. He needs somewhere for the energy to go, the churning emotion he’s trying so very hard to keep from slipping into his voice. 

“We could’ve,” the king says, “if you or that Revisionist had  _ done as I ordered  _ and come to me. To your mother.”

“Yeah, because it all went  _ really well  _ when Stephen told you the truth last time, didn’t it?” Tony bites out. His heel drags on the tile beneath him. The impact vibrates up his leg. 

“That’s hardly important two hours before you’re going to  _ die—” _

Tony drops choking into fury again. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice carefully controlled,  _ “not important?  _ You’re going to stand where you stood and tell me what you did doesn’t  _ matter?” _

“Your life, Tony,” Maria reminds. 

“I know it’s terribly difficult to believe,” seethes Tony, “but I’m capable of prioritizing my continued existence without also being cruel and ignorant.  _ Who would have thought?” _

Maria shakes her head, leaning forward where she sits, and Tony knows she’s afraid. So very afraid. He doesn’t want her to be. That’s a hurt he can ease, a hurt he  _ wants  _ to ease, because he is his mother’s son and it’s her that taught him empathy and selflessness to ease the vision and dedication he cultivated from his father. Tony loves. 

“Please,” Maria said. “Just let us help.”

Tony loves. And yet.

And yet. 

“No,” he says, and he’s not pacing anymore.

For a moment, there’s silence. Like neither Howard nor Maria had even considered that answer, like Tony had just cut the strings of a rope bridge and dropped them all down, sickeningly, toward something unexpected. Howard’s knuckles pale beneath the force of his grip on the chairback.

A king stares at Tony. Tony stares back.

“I’m going to live through the night,” Tony says, very precisely. “And that’s all you’ll know—all you have to know. Until I decide I can trust you with the rest of the story.”

Anger finally splinters across Howard’s face, and Tony’s own rises up to meet it. “You’ll do that to us?” Howard says. He strides around the edge of the throne, stepping down from the dais as if it means a thing to Tony now. “You’ll make us fear for your life because you think I was  _ rude _ ?”

“Yes,” Tony snarls. “Because that? What you did to Stephen this morning? That wasn’t rude, father _.  _ That was barbaric. And you don’t even realize it.”

Maria opened her mouth, but Tony kept talking. “You’re about to deny it. You’re about to prove that you don’t care to understand, that you don’t even regret it. And why would you? You got what you wanted, after all. Answers from an  _ enemy of the kingdom. _ ”

Howard takes another step forward, and though Tony’s chest twists, he refuses to step back. “You’re over—”

“I am  _ not,”  _ Tony cuts him off. “Overreacting, overexaggerating, I don’t care. Do you know what it’s called when you force someone to to reveal information? When you inflict pain and fear on them until they offer up a secret that could potentially harm the society they care about? That’s  _ torture.” _

Tony knew he should lay the words before his father, knew he should meet the eyes of the king and argue. But instead he looked at Maria, and he felt like he was pleading. “What you did to  _ my Revisionist  _ was torture.”

_ ‘You didn’t say anything,’  _ Stephen had whispered. Resigned. Tony is saying something now.

There’s doubt in his mother’s eyes, shining from atop the throne of the world. Shame. And Tony had thought he’d feel some triumph, some satisfaction—but all he feels is a child’s guilt of being the one to put it there. 

“It doesn’t matter that he’s a sorcerer. Because you’re wrong about them, you’re both  _ wrong.”  _

Howard doesn’t come closer. Tony raises his hands, gesturing at nothing. 

“I…” Maria says. She shakes her head.

“You did Avelshi a disservice, driving the Revisionists from the realm they’re dedicated to save. You did  _ them  _ a disservice. Because they’re still people, still  _ our  _ people. Our subjects. The separative regulations never took that away.”

Tony turns his gaze up, meets his mother’s, meets his father’s. He wants them to understand. He doesn’t care if they understand. He needs them to, and at the same time, it doesn’t matter at all.

“I am ashamed,” Tony says quietly, thunderously, “to be heir to a throne that would treat a culture the way we’ve treated theirs.”

In the eaves of the castle, a thousand carved Eyes blink. 

Tony looks at the ground and sees mountains in the patterns of the tile, sees oceans in the shadows, sees farmland in the dust. No one speaks. The legislative heart of Avelshi is deadly silent. Time stretches, and Tony knows it so differently now, knows it in the way a blind man sees color in the delight of a friend. 

And though he can’t see it, the shades of the chandelier lanterns and the angle of the light cast his shadow with a crown. 

When Tony looks back up, his mother is on her feet. She looks like she wants to say something, like the secret lying behind her teeth hurts more than anything Tony could say. For a moment, Tony hopes. 

But all Maria says is, “Then what do you expect us to do?”

“I expect you to be ready to dole out punishment to the person who’s trying to murder me no matter how bad it might look politically,” Tony says tiredly. “And I expect to know what’s written in those stolen prophecies when all this is over.”

Howard frowns. “That’s not—”

Maria puts a hand on the king’s arm before he can finish. “Maybe he’ll finally understand, if he knows,” she says. Tony’s not sure if he’s supposed to hear her words. “He deserves to know.”

Howard studies her, studies Tony, studies the space between them. Then he takes a step back. “Fine,” he replies, and it’s the closest thing to agreement, the closest thing to apology, that Tony could expect. 

“After you’re safe,” Howard says, “I will tell you what you wish to know.”

Tony steps back. “Thank you.”

The quiet around their hands is full of ragged edges and raw resignation and unspoken words. Light drips down the walls, and somewhere in the courtyard, a fiddle begins to play. Tony waits, but neither king nor queen reaches out to break it. 

Tony nods. He understands.

“I’ll see you in three hours,” Tony says, and leaves. The world filters back into focus, and nothing calls him back. Tony thinks about the days to come—the days that have to come, because he has too much to do in the kingdom that’s offered him a chance to change. Tony leaves, and the throne room is silent.

And in the shadows of the mezzanine, aberrant sword heavy in hand, an unseen figure smiles slowly and slinks into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that bodes well.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Join me next week (hopefully) for the chapter I wrote this whole fic for...


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